Only for a Little While
by shywr1ter
Summary: ML, early S1: What we do for those we love. The choices we make in the best interests of our loved one can destoy someone else's...Now complete.
1. Prologue

_ONCE AGAIN, my thanks for your words and thoughts. This is such a hoot, coming out from under my rock! So nice to find you all hanging around; you've stoked the fires & helped me whip these up over the past few nights._

_THIS IS A STAB at a longer, multi-part story. I'm weak at developing a good, solid, complex plot with a strong start, middle and end–which is why all the recent hit & run vignettes. But it's something I want to try, and with a couple like Max & Logan, it might come a little more easily._

_THE TIME IS again early S1, probably somewhere between "411 on the DL" and "Prodigy" for what I foresee–but if anyone sees it playing out at a different point in the time line, I'm flexible..._

_AND AS ALWAYS...characters borrowed and gently used. All belong to the good folks who own DA. _

**PROLOGUE: Three weeks earlier:**

This was a _good_ day...

"His Crankiness" had been positively chipper all morning. Not only did he have a good hack in the can, but he'd decided recently that he needed to refresh his cover, so had written an "above-ground" three part piece for a regional journal. Not only was it published quickly, but he had just gotten word that morning that it was on the nomination list for a not-too-shabby award. Logan was almost feeling like a real live journalist again.

The feeling was made even better by the news he had for Max: a list of 18 names, all young women between the ages of 17 and 24 who had suddenly been added to a new patient list in a private clinic near Gillette, Wyoming over the course of 3 or 4 years–all apparently surrogate mothers who underwent fertilization on site, paid a stipend throughout, given room and board and state of the art medical attention during their stay, and released nine months later. There was no record of the offspring.

...and Logan showed Max the six names connected with the two year period that had to embrace her own birth date...

They made their way through the market, more crowded than usual due to Saturday shoppers, and Max followed Logan as he pushed from stall to stall, sniffing vegetables and squeezing fruit and rubbing herbs between his fingers...

She watched, amused, as he considered the peach he held up to his nose. "You know, I'd think this was all for show if I hadn't actually tasted some of your creations." Max muttered good-naturedly. Not only was the market crowded with people, but the food seemed to be endless today. Indeed, a very good day...

"It's all about the ingredients" he announced, "but I have to confess that it does take a certain genius to make each one a masterpiece when half the things you need are suddenly unavailable," He glanced up at her with a smug grin as he reached across a bin of tomatoes, stretching to grab one with just a little more color than the others, and curling up his nose in disappointment before putting it back. Looking around, Logan saw yet another rack of goods catch his eye and he called, "hey Max–can you grab...?" He watched her catch up to him and he turned back to the bin that stood high, a bit taller than Max, tipping away from them. "The lettuce, there–it looks pretty good." He watched, directing her to just the right bundle of greens, as Max leaned in and up to find the leaves he wanted. After the appropriate scrutiny, he added them to the basket in his lap.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Max laughed, standing in a familiar pose, fist on her hip, finding the whole thing a bit over-involved, but pleased that, for whatever weird reason, he seemed to be having fun.

"You're not?" He looked up in mock surprise, "Of all people, you should be passionate about food stalls. The dinner potential here boggles the mind. "

"What else do you need?" she laughed, as he turned to push back out into the aisle leading from one seller to the next. Max followed, musing. Who'd've thought that a simple trip to the market could be so... companionable? And who'd've thought that someone who knew about her unusual upbringing would accept her so easily and let her feel like a normal girl...

But it never lasted, did it? And Max looked over at Logan just in time to see a subtle shift in his features, the delight there moments ago fading. With a glance ahead to see what changed his mood, she saw what–and who--caught his eye, and felt a wave of sadness for him, understanding his reaction now.

Coming toward them along the aisle was a man of maybe thirty or so, pushing a cumbersome, "medical" wheelchair, bringing a frail looking woman nearly eye to eye with Logan. His strong back and shoulders, his easy, independent mobility in his low-friction, lightweight chair made a glaring contrast to the translucent skin and shaky limbs of the middle-aged woman, clearly quite ill. It didn't matter, though, how fit and mobile he was, Max knew; at that moment, Logan saw only her chair, and his, and had visions of being that invalid, pale and dependent. She wondered fleetingly what he saw every day when he looked in the mirror...

But his earlier buoyant mood had been a strong force and, to her surprise and relief, in a moment, Logan appeared to shake off the melancholy that threatened to return, and looked back to Max a bit sheepishly. Going back to her question, he offered a shrug, "Well, you'll want dessert, won't you?"

"Won't _you_? she challenged. His chuckle let her relax.

"Either way, I can use some of those apples." He tipped his chin toward another bin. "Want to get me about a dozen?"

"Okay" She leaned over to grab a bag, and bent to inspect the fruit as Logan moved off in search of flour and sugar. As she turned to the next bin, Max heard a gasping sound behind her, and saw that the ailing woman in the chair had gasped for breath and now sat rocking gently, looking shaken and ill. As the man behind her came around to offer assistance, Max filled her bag quickly and moved off to find Logan, awkward with the woman's suffering.

So she didn't hear the man asking his mother what had happened, if she was alright...and had no idea that what had caused the woman's gasp was not the illness now wracking her body, but the glimpse of a bar code on Max's neck as she leaned over the apple bin.

"...452..." the woman wheezed to her son, voice barely audible even in his ear, in the noisy marketplace...

TBC...


	2. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMING DEPARTMENT: Characters and such and belong to Messrs. Cameron, Eglee, & Fox. Nice of them to make them up. We'll treat them with care._

_THANKS ONCE AGAIN–your comments and encouragement are so appreciated. I hope they keep coming; they have helped me get a sense of what works & what doesn't._

_THE TIME has now established itself at ten days post-"411 on the DL"_

**CHAPTER ONE:**

**FOGLE TOWERS**

As had happened more times than he liked, Logan Cale counted the number of hours that had gone by with his nose in the computer by the twinges in his shoulders and the growling hollow in his stomach, empty of anything but caffeine. But a project that had eluded him for many months was up and active again with some newly found information from an informant working at the state commissioner's office. Thousands of dollars that should be used toward the restoration of dependable public services, clean hospitals and honest police had been syphoned off into the personal accounts and burgeoning pockets of a handful of corrupt officials.

Finally, the proof he needed to publicize the bastards was coming together, and he realized with a wave of excitement that if he could get into the physical files within the commissioner's office for the last link in the data chain he could get the word out and maybe even stop the funds' drain. Staring hard at the scrolling data to determine which files he would need and where, his hand reached out of habit and, not looking away from the screen, started punching in Max's number...

But he stopped, straightening momentarily, his hand hovering mid-number, before dropping back to the keypad to cut off the call. He could use Max's help, but didn't _need _it; the Informant Net actually had two other people with access to the materials he needed. And the past ten days had been hard on Max... he didn't need to make matters worse.

Logan pulled off his glasses to stretch and roll his neck tiredly, then sat unmoving, thoughts now fixed on Max. Her life since escaping Manticore had been focused on reuniting with the only "family" she knew, those others raised with her in the government's foray into playing God. She had ached to stay with the others, but Zack, commander at age 12, ordered them to separate, and ever since then Max was determined to find them. How devastating for her to find then lose Zack in mere hours, to learn that he felt it more important to keep moving than to keep in touch–and to know he held the secret of where to find the others and would not tell her.

Over the past week and a half she had tried to play it off and to act as if it didn't bother her, but Logan knew–not only had he understood how important it had been to her and for how long, but he could see the layer of vulnerability it left. Max had been so certain that the key to her life was finding her Manticore siblings–and when she found one and the world was still broken, it became, at least for the moment, a darker and scarier place.

He wished he could make the pain go away for her–and wished he could help her see that the family she had _now_–Original Cindy and the others...himself...were more important than the ghosts of the past. He'd see if he might find a way...but 'til then, he'd not call her for the little things others could do. She needed time away from life's uglier side, and he'd give her a reprieve as long as he could.

He straightened again and looked back to the files unfolding before his eyes. Maybe she'd get past it soon....

**SPACE NEEDLE**

Max sat on the domed ledge and looked over the city, nearly silent even to her keen hearing at this height. It was late, but she knew Logan would still be up. She hadn't heard from him that day and she thought about swinging by to see what he'd been doing–probably the project in which his nose had been buried for the past few days. He kept her out of the loop on this one; she didn't think he was exactly hiding anything from her but there was something he wasn't saying.

She sighed. Logan had been so hurt by his ex-wife scamming him into thinking she actually had a heart –the bitch had some sense of timing, that was for sure. Logan would have been hurt and ashamed by falling for her "one day at a time" act _any_ time, but didn't she get that the man's self-image was still fragile from having a bullet shatter his spine not all that long ago?

...Max suspected that Val knew exactly how fragile he was...

Max closed her eyes and imagined the scene if she did go over to see Logan. Other than offering again to do some work on his file, she was at a loss to know how to help. She knew he was throwing himself into this EO project so he'd be too engrossed–or too tired–for his thoughts to have time to fester. She would offer her assistance and he'd smile, thank her...and decline.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she hugged them close. She missed the Logan who could relax and have hope in the world he worked so hard to save. And she felt helpless to know how to find him...

**JAM PONY, the following day.**

Max had already made three runs before 10:00 a.m., uncharacteristically quiet even when Normal pointed it out to her. She went up to her locker to fish out an apple–one she still had from those Logan sent with her, from the market–and bit into it, deep in thought. Original Cindy saw her and came up to mother her. "C'mon, boo, what's got you so down? Original Cindy can't take many more days like this."

"'S nothing" she muffled through the apple. "Just thinking."

"Uh-huh." OC nodded, not buying a moment. "Sit"

Max wavered, looking skeptical, but Original Cindy glared her into a seat on the bench. "Now listen. I don't need to be all up in your stuff, but you _do_ know that Original Cindy's here, she's heard it all, she's your boo and wants you to stop moping–so what can she do?"

Max sat beside her for a few moments, considering her, before relaxing into a smile. "She can do just what she did now–be a friend" she leaned in to nudge Original Cindy with her shoulder. "Thanks"

"That's all? You sure?" OC asked.

"Sure." Max smiled.

"Max!!" Normal's voice cut through. ""Front and center"

"Or maybe you could stick a sock in Normal" Max rolled her eyes at Cindy, offering a weary grin.

"You got that right" OC stood to dig in her own locker. "Whatever I can do, boo."

"Thanks" Max smiled, and went to the desk, palm out & up in a bored sweep. "What this time?"

"Not a run–one for you" Normal looked at the package in his hands and lifted the lot to Max, who took the bulky envelope.

"What is it?" She frowned.

"One way to find out. Hurry up; no service fee, no loitering. You can drool over it later."

Max snorted softly and, turning the envelope over in her hands, walked apart across the open entry area and pulled open the flap. As the contents tumbled out, Max's chest tightened and she gasped...

She held a scrap of fabric, a slip of paper and a photograph. Her hands nearly shook as she turned them over: the fabric was a faded square of rough camouflage fabric, the pattern and color distinctively recognizable as being from the only clothing she was given to wear for more than a decade of her early life; the paper, a simple scrap bearing a one line address; and the photo–a close up closely shorn neck and a series of black lines tracing along the nape of a youngster's neck.

And those black lines were Jondy...

Images swam as her eyes filled, and she roused to look up at Normal, who stared in surprised at the reaction of his usually-tough messenger. "Normal, who brought this? When?"

"It was in the truck with the other ten o'clock–"

"Just now? Who...?" She ran to the street, looking each way to find any delivery trucks in the area. None–and it was already 10:20; no telling where they'd be. She went back in.

"Can you find where they went?"

"No–I don't even know who did their run today." Normal's gruff demeanor was shaken by this intense, emotional reaction from her. He peered close. "Look, if it's bad news..."

"No...I don't know...look, I gotta blaze. I'll be back..."

"You gotta _work_..." The moment of compassion was done.

"I get a lunch hour. I'll be back..." And grabbing a bicycle, Max pushed out into the street to see what Logan could do or say about this...


	3. Chapter 2

_SAME disclaimers as the rest._

_THANKS ONCE AGAIN for your interest and notes. Having input on these is a real joy._

**CHAPTER TWO:**

**SEATTLE STREETS**

Max bent low over the handle bars of the bicycle she rode, tearing through alleys and back streets at a speed that, ordinarily, she would recognize as far too attention-getting to be done safely. But at this moment all she could think of was getting to Logan, to get his input on the artifacts she cradled close under her jacket. She might have lost Zack for now, but Jondy was trying to contact her–wasn't that what these things meant? Even so, the tightening in her belly didn't let her feel like a joyful reunion was in store, and somewhere deep inside she knew that she needed Logan to tell her this was real.

Three checkpoints, and the risks she took to skirt them she knew were reckless even if done in the dark of night. She felt anxiety propelling her at all speed, it never occurring to her that her manic chase to see Logan was not because of emergency or deadline, but from her own grief, and the fear of being again abandoned by a sibling she'd sought all these years.

She heard a police siren and an indignant yell; she ducked lower and turned sharply to hug a narrow dirt passage way behind a hotel at the edge of Sector 9. Now that she was in one of the wealthier sectors she would find more police and private guards to protect those with assets still available to buy such attention. She stayed off the public streets completely now and traced a now familiar route through parking garages and loading alleys behind attractive facades to Logan's place...

Logan was the only one who knew all about her outside of Manticore, who knew that there were those out to catch her or dissect her or use her; only he knew about Zack and Jondy and the others. For so many years she had gone it alone and now, especially so soon after Zack's callous departure, she felt some relief to know that she could tell somebody --and some desperation to do it _now_.

**FOGLE TOWERS**

Waiting was something Logan did not do well.

He'd found it hard enough to do before his injury, and back then he didn't have to depend on others to do so much of his work. Now it seemed that was all he did, wait for others to fetch or reconnoiter or carry out or carry on...

Again he was waiting, this time for a mid-level clerk at the commission to pinch the files he needed. He chewed his lip, scanning through security monitors at the capitol, looking for any unusual activity. He should have heard from the guy by now; he'd have had his best chance early, before the other employees showed up in the morning. Logan stewed that this meant he'd have to wait another day for his files –and didn't want to think yet that it could mean anything more dire than that for his informant.

Peering close at the screen to follow some odd movements on the commission's security panels, he barely registered the sound as Bling came up beside him. Logan looked up with a small start to see his trainer with a tall glass of deep red liquid held out to him, and he blinked up in silent question.

"Drink it." Bling suggested, waiting.

"What is it?" Logan sniffed at the tumbler, then looked a bit surprised. "Cranberry juice?"

"Preventative medicine." Bling offered. "Drink up"

"I will" Logan turned back at the screen but asked, "but where did you manage to find it?" He was almost relieved for the mundane distraction.

"I know a guy who knows a guy" Bling allowed a smile at his melodrama. "You need anything before I go?"

"No; thanks." Logan's eyes didn't leave the screen now, seeing some movement that he wasn't sure was significant, but appeared to interest the commission's security people.

"He still hasn't checked in yet..." Bling's words were more statement than question.

"No–but I hope he knows just to lay low if the timing's off–another day or two won't matter."

"He'll be fine." Bling promised. He paused another moment, looking over Logan's shoulder, and offered, "I'll be back around 3:00, alright?"

"Yeah; thanks..." It took a few steps to rouse Logan but as the sound sunk in he turned to add, "hey, look–it's okay, if you can't make it back 'til tomorrow. 3:00 is fine if you can, but..." He shrugged.

"Okay." Bling considered his client and nodded. He'd be back. These past days hadn't been the best for the man, who, along with fighting the power, had been fighting a small infection and a big blow to his pride. Maybe another workout, an easy one, would help him balance things a little more quickly. Bling took a last look at Logan, hunched into the computer screen, before turning to leave the man to his demons.

But in only a few minutes Logan heard the door and assumed Bling was back. "Hey, did you forget someth..." He turned around and saw not Bling but Max in the hallway, breathing hard and looking shaken. "Max? What...?"

"Logan, look..." She came forward and spoke low, her voice strained–he frowned. The carefree, casual, always in charge Max was gone and in her place was a woman whom he worried was finding it difficult these days to survive the never-ending battles intact.

She was holding a plain envelope out to him, a thickened mailer, with only her name on it, followed by "Jam Pony" underneath. Eyebrows knit in worried question, Logan opened the envelope to shake out the contents. The first thing to catch his eye was the photo and the child's bar code it revealed.

"It's Jondy" she whispered, her eyes glittering with moisture. "Logan, she's here."

He looked at the other things in his lap, choosing to ignore the address for the moment. He held up the fabric. "Her uniform?"

"Hers or one of the other X5s." Max watched Logan's face hungrily for a sign of what he thought, and felt frustration stir as his expression remained one of concern. "I've got to go meet her..."

"Max..." Logan began softly. He looked at the address; it was in the warehouse district near the old port entry, largely deserted by all who had legitimate business there. This could be better. "Can you know for sure that it's Jondy, and not just someone using this to get to you?"

"I know it's her bar code."

He nodded, his concern growing. She wasn't listening to reason, and he knew already she would not be talked out of going.

"But think about it–wouldn't she contact you more directly, if she has actually found you? She wouldn't want you to have to guess if it were safe..."

"But this is how _I'd_ do it, Logan!" Max's face was flushed, hungry to believe, and she reached to snatch back the envelope and its precious contents. "Don't you see? It's perfect–she's given me her ID with this photo, an address to find her–and something only another Manticore could recognize as genuine, a piece of the uniforms they made us wear. You know they kept the pattern and weave unique, don't you? It was another way to verify who we were, if any of us escaped–even if we dumped the clothes it was another trail marker, they figured. Jondy might have known that, and if she did it's even more reason to show me this, so I'd understand..."

Logan looked into the eyes burning with her mission–is that how he looked when he was chasing one of his projects, as others had suggested? Was Max still so pained by Zack's departure that she would not be able to go into this sensibly? He temporized, "Whoever this is, sh..."

Her eyes flashed. "It's_ Jondy_" she glowered...

This was not good. "Max, hear me out..." He urged, gently, trying his best not to sound patronizing– the last thing he needed to do was run her off. "The person who left this knew enough about you to know that you'd understand these things...and they knew where you worked. If it..." He rethought his words. "Wouldn't Jondy have just come to see you, maybe check you out without identifying herself, or leave you a more direct message?"

Max shrugged. "Maybe she did come by, and I didn't recognize her. Or wasn't there." She dug in, making this true. "Maybe she isn't all that certain if I'm who I am–or maybe she doesn't know which one I am..."

"How could anyone have known that you were Manticore, Max?" Logan's face now showed his concern for her, clearly. "If Jondy could know–how did she find out?"

"I don't know!" Max had finally let a grain of self-protection permeate her focus. "Maybe she's seen Zack and he told her..."

"C'mon, Max..." The teal-green eyes looked up into hers, their worried look telling her that he was going to try to stop her. "You're inventing explanations that you know aren't too sound. I know you want this to be Jondy..."

"Logan, who else could it be?"

"Max..." He sighed, sadly...He didn't need to say more; she knew the answer to her own question was that it could be anyone from the organization from whom she'd hidden all these years. He saw the understanding, and went on, "Look, you know I've been poking around and trying to find some connections to Manticore, and what's happened with the project and all those civilian employees they had and all X-ers they raised. I've shown you what's out there..." Well, most of it, he thought to himself, "and for whatever reason, this just feels wrong. I wish I could give you a better explanation, and I know that you knew her, I didn't, but..." he looked to her, trying to decide if it was safe to be so certain. "It's a trap, Max..."

Her eyes filled again, irrationally. "But what if it's _not_, Logan?" she begged. "What if it's Jondy? I have to go..." She turned to leave.

"Not like this" his brakes snapped off in a shot and he came up behind her, even reaching for a hand to stop her. "Max--" he tried to soothe. "Let me come–and let me do some checking on a few things; we can go tomorrow night...there's not time limit on this; she'd have to know you'd need to check a few things, wouldn't she?"

"Tomorrow?" He might as well have said next year...

"Please, Max...thirty-six hours. I can get a lot done in that much time, and you'll be in a far better position to do this safely–for the both of you..." The sudden idea to question Jondy's safety struck him as an ideal way to help get through to her. "After all, if she's been hiding too, maybe she needs a safe house, or some identity papers, something..." The flicker of agreement in her eyes made him feel some relief. "And I can see about some subtle back up–maybe Bling, or even Matt..."

"Matt can't know about Manticore..." She suddenly stiffened, making his relief short lived.

"I know that–c'mon, Max, I just meant that we could know someone was in the vicinity with some fire power..." He watched her waver, and felt his worry lessen a little. If she could just take some time with this, maybe even living with the knowledge another day would make her less driven–and therefore at least a bit more cautious. "Come back here tomorrow night at nine–does that sound okay?"

She wavered, and finally nodded, silently. He watched her, closely. After a moment or two, he offered, "Look, it's lunch time–c'mon, let's find you something..." He released his brakes silently and began to push out toward the kitchen.

"...no..." Her voice stopped him, nearly there. "Gotta blaze..." When he turned and looked up to her, concern mixed with the surprise at her answer, she shrugged, "Gotta get back to work..."

"When will you be done, today?" he asked, hoping for a casual tone to cover his ulterior motive. "I have great plans for a genuine Cale masterpiece, whenever you can get here," And what better way to have her nearby, so he could keep an eye on her and how she was handling things...

"Oh..." she managed to smile for him, looking back into his worried eyes. "Um...Normal said we might have overtime tonight..." Max saw the subtle color shift in the green eyes as he questioned her words, so she added. "Probably 8, 8:30" the smile smoothed her features, her breathing calm now.

He sat back, looking a bit more centered with her reaction, and nodded. "I can have it waiting, then...?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks, Logan....gotta blaze" she repeated quietly. "And..." she wavered, seeming then to change her mind. "Thanks..." she smiled softly as she turned to go.

**SEATTLE STREETS**

Max's ride back toward the town center was less frantic but she barely noticed her surroundings. She knew that Logan was right–or at least right to raise the concerns he had. That was why she'd been in such a rush to see him, wasn't it? She'd known he'd be the voice of reason for her and that if she'd listen to anyone, it would be to him...

Logan knew what her siblings meant to her and what losing them cost–and even with that he didn't seem to get it, really–he was probably right that caution was indicated, and that she ought to tread carefully until she knew more. He had resources and connections and even though it looked farfetched to think that more information could be developed to explain what this meant, if anyone could get the 411 on it, he could...

But this was her sister, a voice in her head insisted....this was the way a Manticore soldier would let another know they were near...wasn't it?

....wasn't it?

_..to be continued..._


	4. Chapter 3

**_DISCLAIMER_**:_ Still not mine, darn it._

_THANKS TO everyone for keeping me at this–I was the one on the playground who'd do or try anything, once goaded. My honest appreciation to those of you out there who keep egging me on. I couldn't wait to keep it going... _

**FOGLE TOWERS, 9:25 PM**

Logan switched the oven to "off" from the "warm" setting he'd had on since 8:00. The knot in his stomach was in full twist mode now, and he rolled forward to blow out candles that threatened to spill wax over the table. Knowing it was pointless, he nonetheless lifted the phone to punch in Max's number and page her one more time...

What possible reason had he had for letting Max walk out of here this morning? How the hell didn't he see this? No; how the hell did he not _act_ on what he'd seen from the start? He'd known, deep down, that she wouldn't wait to set off to find Jondy, and wondered if he possibly could have thought that it was more important to track the clerk at the commission or try to throw together some lame hack about elected officials draining off government funds. It wasn't as if everyone didn't already know it was happening...

And it didn't work to tell himself that Max could take care of herself and had been in worse scrapes than this. She wasn't herself, so thrown by recent days with Zack. And if he were right and the only ones who could have known about her were Manticore-related, then she'd be facing those who knew exactly what she could do...and exactly what methods might overcome her obvious advantages. They certainly knew precisely which buttons to press to get her there...

And to make matters worse–he wasn't sure of the address. He agonized over his colossal stupidity in not paying better attention, or writing it down, or committing it to memory before she'd grabbed it back. After all, that was by far his biggest "clue"–it would have told him straight out where to find her. He remembered the street name, but it was a long one with several large, abandoned buildings, any number of which had rabbit-warrens of room and cubbies where one could hide--and he was pretty sure not all would have shiny, working elevators.

He knew he had to find her but was at a loss to know how. He wasn't getting anything done here, so grabbed a jacket–and his gun and some ammunition–and stuck his keys in his pocket. He thought about going to Crash to see if she were there –then admitted to himself that he knew she wasn't, but that he'd be going to see if Original Cindy was there and could tell him anything. Any qualms he'd felt in the past about braving the noisy, lively bar were forgotten, as it was the most likely place he could find those who'd last seen her...

He closed his eyes involuntarily at the turns of phrase so often used in his profession... "last seen by......last seen wearing cropped black pants and dark red jacket..."

He had to stop this. He wasn't going to get anywhere, especially when he had so little to go on, by panicking, and he didn't know for certain if she'd gone, or if it were a trap...

The snort of derision he aimed at himself couldn't drown out the loud _crack_ of the metallic brakes he released angrily. Oh, he knew...he'd never thought otherwise...

**CRASH**

It was harder to negotiate the crowded bar once inside than it had been to get there. The back, street level entrance that allowed his chair access emptied right up near the pool tables and make-shift dance floor, so the throngs around him on their feet made it impossible to see anyone past the bodies bumping up close to him...he fought through the crowd slowly, wondering if there was any point or if he were just wasting time better used to find Max...

Until he spotted Original Cindy, his sense of irony noting she was up on a floor a half-level above where he sat, unassailable to anyone on wheels. He waited, watching closely to catch her eye. It wasn't too long– one of the good points of sticking out like a sore thumb, he supposed–and waved her over.

"Hey, what's up, sugah?" Original Cindy seemed to have no sense that there was a problem. "What are you doin' here?"

"I'm looking for Max–or to see if you know where I can find her..."

Cindy frowned, "Well, yeah, she said she got an invitation to a cousin's wedding–she said you knew all about it" Cindy frowned.

"...oh-- I did-- but I thought she was planning to wait 'til tomorrow." He temporized.

"Well, you know Max–she probably would prefer to ride at night. A little dark wouldn't stop her."

He _did_ know her–and he was sick with worry and guilt that he'd let her go, that he didn't go with her. Of course she wouldn't wait even another minute to look for her sister...he should have dropped everything to go with her, and now he was wasting time with little clue how to find her...

"Hey, boo" Original Cindy frowned at the pale features on the handsome face. "You don't look too hot–it's not Max's taking off, is it? What's going on that neither of you have said?" She rocked back on a heel. "She said she might be gone overnight, but I can't imagine that's enough to make you look _that_ worried."

Logan shook himself to look up at her determined expression, but was too wrapped up in his concern to come up with much. While Max trusted Original Cindy as much as she did him, she hadn't told Cindy anything to let her think that Max was anything but a "regular girl." He couldn't violate Max's trust, but Cindy would press... "No, I just...uh..." Think, Logan, he breathed to himself. "I'd just heard that the sector police were clamping down tonight and tomorrow, and wanted to be sure she knew..."

Cindy looked relieved. "Come on, sugah, Max has the po-po wrapped so tight around her pretty little finger that they'd give her an escort." Original Cindy could completely believe that a rich boy like Logan didn't know the ins and outs of hassling with the cops and, if he did, he could fix it with money– or even that friend of his, the detective she'd met when they had his help to get Max out of jail. "Oh, but look–"Cindy remembered, "she did leave a note with me with me this morning on her way out, for you. I guess she thought you might be lookin' for her." At that, Cindy suddenly wondered why that sounded suspicious. But seeing the hope leap in Logan's eyes, she couldn't say anything...she just put a hand on his and leaned in to say, "'S in my purse–be right back."

A note? So Max had even seen this coming, that he'd be looking for her. Maybe she'd offer something more to go on...

"Here, boo." Cindy wavered, and felt suddenly like she was eavesdropping, backing up just a little so she wouldn't be able to see the note, once opened. He sensed it and took advantage of it, maybe a way to help keep Max's secrets safe.

"Thanks, Cindy." He stuffed the note in his jacket and turned to go. "Sorry to be a pest."

"I understand–the two of you, you know..."

He blinked up at her in momentary confusion, and began, "We're not...." He stopped...hesitated... and, with a small swallow and nod, turned to head out the way he came...

OUTSIDE CRASH

In the alley where he'd left the Aztek, Logan stopped under the entryway light, ripping open the letter Cindy had given him. In an angular, strong hand was written:

_Logan:_

_I know you wanted me to wait and I'm sorry, but I couldn't. Besides, if you're right, we don't both need to be walking into whatever is planned. But don't worry, even if it is a trap I've been in tough spots before–you ought to know._

_If this get to you, it probably means I've been delayed, 'cos I'm leaving this with Cindy and am on my way now. Don't do anything stupid, Logan, like come looking. Just hang tight and I'll be back. The widows and small children need you to get their back more than I do. But thanks--for everything.  
_

_M._

...to be continued...


	5. Chapter 4

**_DISCLAIMER: All hail the powerful Cameron, Eglee, & 20th Century Fox, who gave birth to most of these folks–heck, they can even have the two of my own I'm throwing in._**

_**THIS ONE WAS tough–I had to make with the plot, not just play with the characters, and probably grew too impatient to get moving. This is why I prefer the one-shots! Ah well, 'qua nocent, docent...' (Suppose Logan took Latin???)**_

_**MY THANKS, once again, not only for the kind and helpful responses, but for the gracious way none of you have pointed out my rather glaring inability to get right with the chapter numbers & labels... by the time I had it figured out, I was committed to the existing set-up. Maybe next time, huh? Til then...**_

**CHAPTER 4**

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: present, 10:00 P.M. **

Logan drove slowly along Ellis Street, the part of the address he knew he'd seen on the paper from Max's package. He remembered that the number had to be either 1010, 1001 or 1101...hell, maybe even 1011. At least he remembered that it was 4 digits, all ones and zeros, because his otherwise useless brain had noted the binary aspect of it. 'Some genius,' he muttered, peering at each of the buildings along the street.

He allowed himself a slight break in the internal castigation he was inflicting upon himself to be thankful he remembered that much, and that the address was distinctive in that way. The problem was that each could be the address he wanted, each was a large, all but deserted building probably containing multiple rooms or offices. Each appeared dark and lifeless.

Sitting outside the 1100 block of Ellis, he wondered if it was too late, if she'd met someone here and moved on. How could he ever know if someone was hidden deep within the walls of one of the buildings? How could he find her? Did he dare call Matt for police assistance? Was there any way to know if Manticore or the feds generally had an eye in the local police, and bringing them close to Max would just be handing her over? Who did he know with the skills he needed whom he could he get embroiled in this and be trusted not to talk? How could he, alone, take on the government, if that was who this was? How could one man take on Manticore?

If he could only be certain that just waltzing in wouldn't endanger Max, or make whatever was happening much worse... and even if he could "waltz," was there any way in hell he could do anything with as little information as he had? If he could just find a way to see inside without anyone being the wiser...

...and suddenly grabbed his phone to punch in the speed-dial to one of his newer–and more resourceful –contacts...a man he knew only as Sebastian...

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: thirteen hours earlier, 9:00 A.M.**

A nondescript sedan pulled up to an abandoned building in the warehouse district and parked near the old loading dock area. The driver, a man of maybe thirty or so, got out to come around to the trunk, pulled out a cumbersome, "medical" wheelchair, and went to the passenger side of the car where he gently lifted a frail looking woman into its seat. Covering her with a light blanket that he explained would keep her warm and dry, as he knew it would shield her from seeing the place he'd taken her, the man quickly and carefully pushed her in and bore her down a dim corridor to its end. Fumbling with the lock, he managed to open the inner door and pushed the chair into a room that was surprisingly clean, warm...even inviting. The furnishings were spare but attractive: a bed, two side chairs, a bureau and bed stand...there was a small CD player but no radio or TV, nothing to permit news of the outside to come in...

"Mom, how you doing? Are you alright?" The man came around to kneel in front of her, looking up to the greyish pallor and sunken eyes. "It won't be too much longer, I'm sure."

The eyes opened and they managed to focus on the face before her, full of loving concern. She tried for a smile and a nod, but the pain wracked her so completely, and what medications she had been given so blurred her thoughts, that she barely managed either. She could not be much longer for the world, but her son was trying so hard to hold back the inevitable...

"Let's get you in bed..." The man said, tenderly lifting the woman, weighing nothing in his arms, and setting her down into a patient-care bed. He pulled fresh-smelling sheets and a light blanket up over the skeletal form and murmured, "there...how's that?"

He stood beside her, looking down to the woman, semi-conscious again, and his brows knit, slightly. He wished he could have trusted someone to help him with this, but he just didn't know for certain that anyone he'd want to ask would go along with this. However, he had the advantage of his mother's years of research notes, her stories, the materials he'd found in her records that she'd managed to keep... and the element of surprise. His one chance at this was a fast and early capture, and he believed he had everything ready for that. Once 452 was here and contained, the rest should be fairly simple. He even hoped that it all could be done within the two weeks vacation he just arranged from work. If not...well, he'd deal with that when the time came.

He walked over to the bureau where he switched on the small baby monitor he'd gotten at a local discount store, and lifted an earpiece to his ear, adapted to the baby monitor's output. The same set-up had worked well at home: his mother knew she could call for him as he went about his chores, and she was familiar with the routine. He looked down at the sleeping woman one more time and sighed, hoping this would work, _trusting_ it would. It wasn't fair, his mother a doctor herself who helped so many patients over the years, to be devastated by this wasting leukemia, something for which she had treated others– successfully. How unfair that she should get sick herself, now, when medical treatment was so compromised, medications hard to come by... Well, maybe now their miracle had come along, and she could be cured. No, not maybe; it _had_. All in a chance encounter at the market.

Dimming the lamp in the corner of the windowless room, the man double checked the reception on the newly installed monitor and, satisfied that he would hear his mother if she called, slipped out into the hall, locking the door behind him, both as a protection for his mother from anyone getting to her, as well as from the nearly impossible chance that she was able to get to the door–he wouldn't want her lost or confused. Satisfied his mother was safe for the moment, he turned to return down the hall and lock the corridor entrance near the entry, making the only easy path from the outside a direct one to the large, open room that used to be a warehouse.

The building was perfect for his needs; it was three stories high but open from floor to ceiling, so anyone entering from the roof would ultimately have to land on floor level. The side corridor where his mother lay was cut into the floor space here, so there was no external access by roof; the walkway above that corridor allowed for a protected, partly hidden view of the entire space, top to bottom – a place he could wait and watch, and, he steeled himself to believe, have at least 30 seconds or so before 452 could react and reach him, no matter her method of entry. And that would be all the time he needed.

He went up to the walkway and into the office there, once more went to test the one mechanical device he'd needed to add, to ensure success. He'd rather have not had to bother but he needed to have a way to stop her from just running out the door, if she had a chance to try before she was neutralized. He peered again through the narrow observation windows, thanking his lucky stars again that he'd found a place so perfect it had an office built above the floor so the boss could watch over his shop, and windows arranged so that they afforded both protection and a view. For his purposes, he'd removed the glass so he lost some soundproofing and shield, but still he had the walls to protect him. And time. And surprise...

At the wall with the observation windows, he surveyed the scene–nothing in the large, empty space on the floor or above it to serve as shield or barrier for anyone there...and with him in place, in hiding, before she arrived, and staying perfectly quiet, even heightened hearing wouldn't let her discover him until he had a chance for the first shot. And then...

His hand moved to the release button, and he heard the immediate metal clang as the heavy steel gate dropped to bar the one exit on the floor. That would do to keep her from leaving that way. As to the roof, well, if she came in from above, he just had to take on faith that she wouldn't be able to make it back up before losing consciousness....he just prayed that she wouldn't get so high that a fall would hurt her.

He flipped the toggle to watch the gate raise itself back into the frame overhead. He was satisfied with the device, and didn't begrudge its cost in material and labor to install. It was all worth it if ...no, when...this all worked and his mother was healthy again. He glanced at his watch–9:40. He felt his pulse pick up speed. It wouldn't be long now; the package would be dropped off at her job in twenty minutes. And from what his mother had said about the X5s and the rumors she'd heard over the years, he suspected that it wouldn't take any time at all for 452 to come looking for another of her kind. And he was ready.

As a final matter, he lifted the lid to the small case in which the syringes lay, lined up along a tray, and gazed at the dart gun next to them, loaded, repeatedly tested, and ready with six doses of AR-320, far more than he needed but handy in case he missed, in his nervousness. He wasn't all that happy about having the syringes up there with him so that he's have to grab them and run with them, but as he couldn't be certain where she'd come in or where she'd fall, that would have to do. Besides, these four were only a precaution; he had an ample supply or SS-112 and syringes below, so it was no loss if any were wasted.

In a sudden wave of anxiety, the man stopped to blink in thought behind his round, plastic glasses--what if the formula wasn't exactly right? After all, he hadn't really gotten to test it on a human, had he? And certainly he didn't have an X5 handy as lab rat...still, it had appeared to work on the neighbor's dog and their parakeet, and neither seemed any the worse for wear after sleeping off their small dose. He shook off the uncertainty and set himself to the plan. No, his mother's notes had been specific and made complete sense, to his own pharmaceutical training; she was right in all things so far and he would not let himself be thrown by silly fears at this point.

He owed her so much better than that...and , making a last trip to relieve himself before settling in to wait, allowed his thoughts to consider how things could be for them, once she was healthy again...

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: ten hours earlier, 12:00 noon. **

The first problem Max encountered was the quiet of the warehouse district and the volume of her Ninja– the district was a ghost town, with no city noises close enough to mask her approach. Notwithstanding how loathe she was to leave her baby unattended, she was more uncomfortable leaving it too far away, if a hasty retreat was needed. Her final compromise was to creep in the last few blocks at an snail's pace, and stash it hidden in a broken doorway across the street, behind the loose metal door that could not be lifted by anyone who wasn't revved up, too.

That left her in the open, should she just cross to 1011. Deciding against the risk, she made her way through the crumpled building to its back alley, skimmed the narrow alley to a point at the end of the block, and crossed at a place that she hoped was out of the way of anyone watching. Once accomplished, she tried to repeat the same process on the other side, but no convenient alley would allow such an approach. Instead, she came along the buildings' front side, hugging the front in a way that she hoped would not look overly suspicious to those who might be looking for her, nor to any "civilians" who happened to be in the neighborhood. She realized the likelihood of the latter being a problem was more than remote.

Once she'd given Original Cindy the note she'd left for Logan, Max had gone directly to the address left in her package, deciding that she knew too little to worry about taking any sort of equipment or gear other than her slim set of tools for making fast work of locks or other mechanical gismos. She'd managed to settle down a bit and focus on her route, her arrival, her destination, but all the while felt herself struggle with the emotional weight of her goal. Part of her knew she should have waited for Logan's back-up and let herself calm down, but maybe she'd meant what she told Zack more literally than she'd thought–that she was almost trying to forget how to handle a situation like this, one in which she was trained to excel. Maybe Zack was right too, that it was sentimentality–but she knew in her core that there was nothing phony about it. Logan had helped her see that, whether either of them would ever admit it or not. And maybe now she'd get to share that with Jondy, as well.

She came to the doorway of 1011, and slipped into the entry, the mechanical doors apparently broken in mid-way, so that they remained frozen open about two feet apart. Leaves and dirt had blown in and had been disturbed, but not cleaned; it has hard to tell if anyone had come this way recently. Listening hard, she heard only gentle wind against the building, a creak or two of the door at her side... no signs of life...

At her right was a door; before her was a large, open room. Silently she moved to the right and tried the door–locked. She'd pass that for now, not wanting to make any noise before she had a better idea of what was here. Coming forward, slowly, she wavered in the doorway, looking around. The room was empty of whatever filled the business; it was dusty but swept of debris. Odd; the building was open to the street but hadn't been taken over by those needing a dry shelter? She backed out, deciding that Logan was right; it was a trap...

But there was no one...no Lydecker, no army to trap her and take her back...no one at all, in fact... and it might just have been Jondy who opened the place, after the package was sent...

Slowly...easing sideways along the wall, Max slipped back into the main room to look around. There was a high roof, open; a second floor walkway to the right, probably over rooms behind the door in the hall. Looking along the walkway she saw no movement, heard nothing...she moved again, at a crouch, along the wall under the walk...along the back wall, a bit straighter...and then, she saw...

There was a piece of clothing, a jacket, crumpled, several feet from the wall. Cautiously, Max stole out to lift it, in question. As she crouched, she looked at the jacket in her hands then, suddenly, looked across the room, as if listening. At that, he moved only an arm...and pulled the trigger, three times, fast.

Max stood up straight, eyes wide. The reaction had to mean she'd been hit–he knew that anyone with her training would immediately go for cover at the sound, had she been able. He hit the release button and the gate slammed into place, as designed. He breathed a sigh of relief. He hard part was past and 452 was contained.

He looked at the woman who seemed to sway a bit on her feet, not yet falling. It probably meant that only one dart had made contact enough to inject her. His mother had been right, though, about the immediacy of AR-320–it made sense. There were a number of civilian medical personnel working with the project subjects and they had to have some guarantee of their safety. His mother assured him that AR-320, like its companion SS-112, was humane and had no permanent effect. Just allowed a non- enhanced person to be safe.

The man grabbed the case full of SS-112-loaded syringes and went quickly to the room. By the time he crossed the floor, 452 had sunk to her knees, swaying, fighting desperately to keep her eyes open. He came closer, slowing to peer at her, holding out his open hand as one would to a stray dog. "I'm sorry, 452, but it couldn't be helped. It's just that when we saw you..." He reached into his pocket to pull out a pair of simple hand-cuffs. "We had no idea there were any of you in the area..." Bending suddenly to grab her arm, he snapped one cuff on Max's wrist, as she barely registered that it was happening. "I'll try to be sure you're as comfortable as you can be..."

The man's voice seemed to vibrate; she was having trouble following his words, processed his actions seconds after they had occurred. With a sudden chill she remembered having this sensation once before, one time, in the infirmary, as her lesson in how dangerous it was to show upset or protest at harm being done to one of her siblings. The swift use of an injection in response to her rush to help left her immediately disoriented and helpless...

She watched the man pull out a syringe and grasp her arm as she tried to struggle, but couldn't get her limbs to respond immediately...he even swabbed her skin before poking the needle deep into her muscle. Nearly immediately, Max felt a warm, rushing sensation come over her and blackness enveloped her...

The man released her arm and straightened her on the floor, disappearing only for moments as he retrieved his mother's wheelchair and carefully lay 452 in its seat. Wheeling her to the same hall that led to his mother's room, he opened a door much closer to the front and wheeled her over to the metal gurney, next to an IV stand. Lifting her onto the pallet he'd laid thoughtfully over the cold, hard surface, he strapped her down safely so she'd not fall or struggle, and watched for signs of waking, noting that she seemed to fight the drugs effects and even seemed to tremble a bit. Ignoring the signs, he worked quickly to insert the cannula of the IV line into a vein in her right arm, and hooked up the IV at the bedside. With that, he breathed a sigh of relief–not only contained, but neutralized now, 452 would receive a steady flow of SS-112 that would keep her in a twilight sleep, barely conscious, that would allow for adjustments so she might take food and water on occasion. This level of the tranquilizer would certainly taint her blood, but would not harm his mother; as she would be able to clear its effects between transfusions mother would have an "enhanced" rest, and wake, refreshed. 452, on the other hand, would stay semi-conscious until they were finished...

Now that all was in place, he could wait no longer. Even before 452 was completely settled, he brought out the splint and box frame he'd constructed to hold her arm in fixed position. Lifting her left arm, he first braced it against his side to wrap rubber tubing above her elbow, snugly. He then moved her arm to strap it in the frame, her elbow braced and open. She was still struggling a tiny bit, and her body jerking a little with some sort of tremors. He frowned momentarily at that, remembering some notes about defective X5s who demonstrated seizure disorder- -but he also recalled that the strain had been eradicated, so she couldn't have that problem. Plus, she didn't seem too affected, and he could feel her slipping further under as the drugs took hold.

"Look, 452, just...relax." He tore the paper off a syringe and deftly attached it to a length of tubing that disappeared into a large pouch at the bedside. "I won't hurt you. Just...don't fight me...and I promise you'll be here only for a little while..."

_...to be continued..._


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

**_DISCLAIMERS the same as all before. My continued thanks for comments--it helps to know which stuff makes sense and which, not so much!_**

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: nine hours earlier, 1:00 p.m. **

The plastic sleeve had filled quickly with the dark, rich blood flowing from the arm of the X5 strapped to the table, and as it topped the first pint, the man greedily snapped the cap closed and switched the tube over to a second pint bag. The subject was clearly healthy and vital, and it occurred to him that he could freeze her blood and have additional supply on hand, as needed.

He turned his back on her to take the first pint down the hall, refusing to be too concerned about the tremors that had continued despite her apparent succumbing to the drug. If it continued he would find a way to ask his mother, but as it was it shouldn't change the quality of the blood she supplied. He felt a heady thrill to know that he was succeeding, that he would be able to give his mother this new chance at life. There was no reason it shouldn't work...

"_Beginning with the X2 series, the subjects were bred to be universal donors, for the improvement of survival rate in battlefield or other critical situations, with 98.79 percent success reached in the X4_" he had read in his mother's study. "_And in X5, pluripotents were introduced into the subjects' serum, the desired result being not only an augmented healing capacity in the subject itself but in use as donor blood, for an increase in healing efficiency in the field._"

He did not find any further reports on the use of stem cells and had asked about that. The studies were incomplete, she had explained, and so not statistically reliable–but her eyes had sparked as she went on to say that it would have only been a matter of time, that the breeding of healing blood donors had indeed been successful. Beyond use for battlefield regeneration of the project soldiers, she had spearheaded the creation of the super-donors, a group of living, breathing serum-machines that could be tapped to cure damn near anything that required the regeneration of any type of cell in the body. The potential was staggering...

She had just needed another six months to study the genetic flaw that repressed serotonin production in these donors, and her genetic program design would have been perfect. Her donors could have been used not only for other project subjects but for the general public as well. What a scientific breakthrough she could have offered the world-- ready blood sources that would heal any disease for any blood type! So close...

At least now, she would have a personal reward for all her work–one of the subjects was here and would provide her with the promised healing that the stem cell-rich blood would afford. The only thing that nagged at him at the moment was that 452 might have been a defective who somehow survived the purge of those with serotonin deficiencies....

No matter. She was here and her blood would heal the architect of the donor program. It seemed to be the ultimate justice.

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: seven hours earlier, 3:00 p.m. **

Max tried to focus on the walls and ceiling around her but she could not; she could not stay awake for long and when she did, she felt small but insistent tremors shaking her, further demonstrating how disruptive the drugs were in her system...

It was bad enough that she was completely overpowered, she now felt nauseous and dizzy. While the first drug, and even the second, had initially felt familiar, this thick, lethargic illness did not. She had a fleeting thought of Logan, of how right he had been to insist she wait and how if she got out of this she would never ignore him again, ever...

She heard the door and strained to see the face of her jailer as he glanced over to her, keeping a bit of distance. She had to know. "What is all this?" She croaked.

"What?" He looked over at her, a bit distracted and pre-occupied, as compared to before. He turned back to his work.

She swallowed and, before she slipped under again she had to know, "What about Jondy? What have you done with her?"

"Jondy?" He shook his head, dismissive. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"_Who_..." She breathed, suddenly feeling her eyes fill, understanding with finality that Logan was right. "Not what..." He ignored her, back to her and working at the shelves several feet away. "The photograph."

"Oh." There was a long pause, and he said, "it was a picture I found in some files. Another one of you; I could never tell one from another." He turned back to consider her. "Have you always had those seizures?"

She turned to look over at him, trying to focus, and what she saw made her shiver, not liking the look in his eyes. She rolled her head back, wearily...alone. "What seizures?" she muttered.

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: five hours earlier, 5:00 p.m. **

"Mother...?" the voice was soft, encouraging. "Time for another treatment."

The woman opened her eyes to see the smiling face of her son blinking owlishly, looking hopeful...and holding a pint bag of plasma, as far as she could tell. She struggled to remember, her thoughts actually a bit more clear with the rest she'd gotten...

He could tell she didn't remember. "Transfusions, mom. X5 blood. You're going to get better."

She was lucid enough to react in surprise. "Briley–how...?" She wondered if her simple, attentive son had finally lost touch with reality, in his fear of her illness. "How could you know if it was an X5's blood...?"

"Don't you remember–at the market? You saw 452?" He saw the flicker of memory in her eyes. "Well, I found her–she agreed to donate some blood, so you'd get better. It won't be long, will it?" He asked, innocently.

The woman sighed. He had read her work, had studied all the files she'd managed to salvage from Manticore, but he just couldn't conceive of all that it meant. Her son the pharmacist, wanting to continue her work but just not equipped with sufficient "skills" for the task... "No...not long..." Oddly enough, it might just work. And if he actually got 452 to agree? Maybe he was more adept than she thought...

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: present, 10:00 P.M. **

The tremors had finally stopped when Briley upped the concentration of SS-112 in her saline drip–he didn't want to have to do it but her increasing pallor and the seizures had him worried. Everything else had gone so smoothly; if this defect compromised his mother's recovery...he wouldn't allow himself to think of it.

He wanted to give his mother yet another transfusion but the sedative was making her sleep for two or three hours afterward, so deeply she couldn't be roused. He hated that he had to disturb her in this but he had to face the fact that he needed her input. He stood and made his way to her room..

"Hi. Mom," he came in quietly, siding up to the bed. "You awake?"

She opened her eyes to him. "Hello, son." As he sat on the bed beside her, she thought she saw that look he had, as a child, when troubled or confused. She waited.

"How you feeling?

She nodded. "I'm alright, Briley." She paused, closing her eyes tiredly. "What is it?"

"You know, I think 452 has those seizures you thought had been eliminated."

She opened her eyes again to him. "Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no, things are fine..." he assured her hurriedly, then paused..and continued, vaguely, "it's just that I think the SS-112 might have caused..."

"The what..?" The grey eyes looked at the man more carefully now, as if trying to see through a fog of memory. "She was given SS-112? By whom?"

The pharmacict shifted uncomfortably under the increasingly lucid gaze. "By me." He swallowed. "I wanted her to be comfortable, and I w...wasn't sure about any other sedatives for her...you had said that it was safe and humane; I thought it would be better than trying something else..."

"How much have you given her?" His mother's voice was steady, even.

"She's been on a drip since she got here; I prepared the dosage as you had listed for the single dose darts; I gave her two, full strength, then put two in a litre of saline. She was still having some tremors, so I put in four." He came clean, realizing he was over his head. He paused, looked away, and added, "she doesn't look so good..."

"Of course not," his mother sighed, wearily, "it's toxic."

"Toxic!" His eyes flew wide as he felt creeping panic overtake him. "But you said--all the reports said--"

"The reports deal with single doses, and recovery time in between." He really wasn't up to this, she thought, not for the first time in his lifetime. "It was never meant to be more than a single use application."

"But mom--" he cringed with the thought of the harm he might have done, "I've given you her blood! Twice! If I've done anything..."

"Briley, please..." she tried to soothe, but felt a bit of irritation that she again had to worry about his lack of understanding in such things. "There were a few hours in between the transfusions, weren't there?"

He nodded eagerly. "Five hours between the first two; five hours since the last--"

She considered the ramifications--and the growing realization that she was starting to feel stronger, more focused, as the blood quickly worked in her system. "It will be fine; five hours in between, and scale back to three doses per litre. I'll be fine." She lay back. "And if you're concerned about the tremors--add 50 ccs of liquid tryptophan into the preparation. That should help."

He bounced up to his feet, again nodding eagerly, and asked, "Should we start this pint now?"

She nodded, considering him, thinking that she might also be starting to understand. "You believe she _needs_ the sedation?"

He looked over at her, guiltily. "Yes."

The doctor sighed again. "Then you may want to take some extra, for storage. It's hard to determine when the toxic effects will affect her organs, but once that happens..." she shrugged.

"I'll get some more right away." And as the small man attached the blood to his mother's IV line, he relaxed a little. She knew everything now, and he had her help--and her blessing. Everything would be just fine...

_To be continued._


	7. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 5**

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: present, 10:40 P.M. **

The sound of wood on metal–a distant clanking, loose boards in the wind–drew Logan's attention suddenly, underscoring how empty and ominous the district seemed. He was getting anxious, waiting to hear back from Sebastian, but he had no other ideas of how to find Max, short of searching each building, room by room–and the likelihood that he could get that done from a wheelchair just wasn't all that great.

The buzz of his phone made him start, slightly, before punching the call key. Again he heard Sebastian's mechanical voice on the other end of the line. "Given what you've told me about the circumstances," Sebastian began, "I have someone who can scan your buildings with two devices: a long range microphone that will pick up voices and other sound from inside the buildings, and a thermal sensing device, a more accurate tool to locate and identify heat sources –including any people there."

"No, Sebastian, I have to do this alone..." Logan grimaced, frustrated. "The risks involved, bringing others in..." He couldn't say more. The buildings seemed impenetrable, his efforts, puny...

At times it was hard to know if Sebastian was being ironic, or reluctant, or enthusiastic, because the voice synthesizer he used did not allow for such variations in expression. The fact that he was articulate and scrupulous in his words, however, usually told a great deal. And at this moment, the man was clearly being insistent. "Logan, these two devices will give you the precise location of your friend, and an idea of who else is with her" he intoned. "You said time was of the essence. Unfortunately, it will take about four hours for him to arrive, but once there, in only a very few minutes, Carter can tell you who is inside, how many, and where." There was a pause, and Sebastian added, "you know this is the best chance you have to find her."

The fear of someone learning about Manticore was dwarfed at that moment by Logan's fear of losing Max. "Okay, Sebastian," he breathed, knowing he had little choice, closing his eyes as worry gnawed at him. "Thank you. This means everything..."

Sebastian's monotone voice was, naturally, patient and calm. "Only one man will be coming, and he is professional, Logan. I trust him with all of my work."

Logan managed a small smile into the phone. "Then I look forward to meeting him." Logan stared, unseeing, out into the night, and added, "Sebastian–this one is personal. Not only will Eyes Only be in your debt, but I will, too."

"Then you made the right decision in this. Good luck, Logan."

Hanging up, Logan sighed quietly through pursed lips. Four hours? He took another long look down the block, wavered...then glanced at his watch. This "Carter" wouldn't be arriving until 2:45; he wouldn't be leaving until he found out what had happened to Max.

He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished out a couple items he knew he'd find there-- a pair of leather gloves and a canvas strap he kept for his basketball workouts. With a grunt of determination, he opened his door, leaned back to get his chair, and started the process of getting himself out of his car. If he had to wait, he might as well start the search the old fashioned way...

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: 11:20 P.M.**

Max groggily roused to feel another prick into her skin–this time, in the back of her hand. Again, her captor must have come back to drain more blood from her. She tried to turn her head to see, but this time saw a different face, one that, even as bleary as she was, she remembered from the market. It was the face of the woman in the wheelchair, the one so ill...

But the woman had changed–Max tried to clear away the fog. She didn't look as ill, and she was more alert, considering Max, peering closely. She spoke–but not to Max. She asked the man, "Has she had any more seizures since you added the tryptophan?"

At the voice, Max's world telescoped back a decade to a cold, bare infirmary where this woman's flat voice and cold bearing presided over one of the medical teams involved in the study of Max and her siblings. Max remembered this doctor as the one who refused to talk to them, or make eye contact, or acknowledge any of them as anything but laboratory animals...

Yet she spoke to Max now. "Tell me what you're feeling, 452." All these years later, she still believed she had the power to give orders. Her voice still carried an arrogant trust in her own superiority.

Licking dry, rough lips, Max managed, "I'm not 452 anymore." She didn't see the glint of question and irritation in the grey eyes.

"Then what are you?"

'What are you?' echoed in Max's ears..._'what are you?'_

"...my name is Max." she whispered. She felt a surge of self-directed anger at the tear that rolled down her cheek, her emotions too flayed to keep them in check. They wanted to know how she felt? Like a soggy newspaper... like the lab rat she had been...like an artificially created being, she ached, as another tear spilled at the unbidden memory –and at the sudden longing to see the one person in the world who knew who–and what– she was, and despite everything never treated her with anything but respect and humanity and concern... with a shiver, she wondered if Logan knew yet that she was gone...

"Your _name_..." The woman echoed, musing. After a moment, she spoke again. "Briley..." the man looked up from securing the tubing to lift his eyes in question. "You'll take a half pint every two hours...at that rate, I think her systems will start shutting down around dawn. We can determine at that point what is left to harvest."

On the gurney, Max heard the words and, weakly, started to laugh. "Briley..." She murmured. "And you make fun of 'Max'..."

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: 2:35 A.M.**

Logan made his way back to the Aztek, muscles aching. He had filled the nearly-four hours since he'd spoken with Sebastian making his way around the four buildings he watched, returning intact but scraped, dirty... sobered.

One of the buildings was completely boarded up, apparently having no usable entry. Another had locked doors that he managed to breech, only to find no electricity and an empty elevator shaft to the four floors above. The third had doors frozen partly open, too narrow for his chair. But there, the open entry and rooms beyond led the frustrated man to slip out of his chair at the parted doors and lower himself to the floor, and to pull himself along, legs strapped at the thighs and trailing behind, into the entryway. All he found for his trouble, however, was a locked inner door and an iron gate barring further investigation deeper into the building. The fourth structure had a securely locked front door, but lower windows broken out that appeared to serve as a handy entry for an number of homeless persons seeking shelter–he saw their huddled forms around a old oil drum pulled inside as a stove...

He wondered how he could manage any of them. At least he knew what he had to overcome, and had kept his thoughts occupied with how he might handle the unique challenges each presented. He was stubbornly determined to have a plan for whichever building Carter found to be his most likely target. Brushing off his clothes, grateful he'd thought to get his gloves before starting, he frowned to see a long gash along his thigh, and the bloody wound under the fabric. He groaned inwardly more at the lecture he knew he'd have to endure from Bling rather than any consequences of the injury. There would be particular hell to pay on this one, since he had no idea how or where he's picked it up....

He came up behind his car as another, dark van pulled along side. He slowed a bit, watching, to see the van slow... then stop, lazily flip its lights off, then back on...followed by a wave of a hand through the windshield. The cavalry had arrived.

And for the first time that night, a sudden surge of hope–or adrenaline–let him shove himself forward with an energy gone hours ago, ready to do what he could to find Max...

...TBC...


	8. Chapter 7

_**DISCLAIMER: Previous disclaimer omission unintended; still not in charge of these characters but just playing with them for a bit.**_

_**THANK YOU ALL for the helpful comments and encouragement. Just when ya think a part isn't working so well, someone gets a charge out of it. That keeps the ink flowing!**_

**CHAPTER 7**

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: 2:45 A.M. **

Logan watched in fascination as the computer screens glowed in the darkened van. In a distant corner of his mind he knew that he had he not been so focused on finding Max, he'd be looking for excuses to have "Carter" stick around –the equipment the man had in the van boggled the mind.

The van's doors had rolled open for Logan, revealing a bank of computers, sensory equipment, and toys Logan could only dream of obtaining. The man rather kindly asked Logan if he could hop up into the van from his chair, and from the van floor to a stool bolted into the van's floor, to see the displays. It took only a moment for Logan to be nose to screen with the state of the art equipment, drawn in by the array.

At the moment, the microphones picked up nothing–no one was talking or otherwise stirring at any point along the block. But bless Sebastian to have been so insistent–two of the four buildings had heat signatures indicating human inhabitation. The building where he'd seen the oil drum fire had showed a bright, circular glow with about 8 or 10 small, oval lights around it–human forms, according to Carter, the two wriggly ones moving nearer to the fire. At Logan's confirming description to Carter of what he'd seen through the window the man nodded, clearly used to the wonder of the equipment, and went on to scan the other buildings. And when he came to the third one, he adjusted the readings.

Carter spoke, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Hmmm. Look here–there appear to be only three people–one here, one here, another here" he indicated, pointing out the distance between each. They're quiet, too–sleeping, looks like."

"It's got to be them" Logan muttered, almost afraid to be optimistic. There were too many ways even one figure could be bad news...

"And look..." Carter shifted a knob, and the display shifted, pulled back–and Logan understood he was looking at a wider area around the block he'd been studying. "There are a couple people here...one or two here..." Carter pointed, "but they're like your buddies at the oil drum–just looking for a quiet night's sleep. Other than that–no one, Logan. Those guys have no reinforcements. If one is your friend–then the worst odds you have are two to one." Carter's eyes carried hope for the home team. Special ops, if he'd even met one–Logan knew Sebastian had some game, but damn...he felt his reluctant spirits begin to rise.

"Two to one can still take me out–all the more quickly if they're armed" Logan muttered, not wanting to jinx this with too much hope. "I don't suppose any of them are in a chair, too?" He joked, wanly.

"I suspect that's too much to ask" Carter smiled softly. "But better than an army. Look, do you have a weapon?" At Logan's nod, he paused, then asked, "Looks like you have your target. Anything else you want to see, or look into?"

With a shrug, Logan shook his head. "Only if you can get them to talk."

Carter mused "Not at this distance." He allowed a wry look, and added, "For that, the old fashioned, low tech methods work a bit better."

Logan's eyebrow quirked in agreement, looking back at the thermal image, already turning a plan half hatched earlier into bold shape in his head. It definitely was unorthodox, and could make matters worse. Still, any attempt could put Max and himself at risk, and considering the building's barriers–and his own limitations–it just might be his only option. And oddly enough, it would provide the absolute best way to make an entrance, if by some miracle this was not anything sinister after all, but merely a meeting of siblings. He had to admit his appreciation of this plan was heavily influenced by the fact he wouldn't look like an overly obscessive worry-wart if he busted into a family reunion...

He offered his hand and his thanks to Carter, who closed up the van and drove away silently, once Logan had been deposited back in his chair. Logan watched him go, then made two phone calls, speaking quickly, low. After the second, he disconnected the call, looked across to the entry through which he'd struggled before. With a sigh, focused now in his determination, Logan started crossing to the building opposite in open sight, making no move to be covert. "Here goes everything,' he breathed...

**1011 ELLIS STREET, SEATTLE: 2:59 A.M.**

With stubborn resolve, Logan went back to the third building he'd tried before, coasting directly up the partly-opened doors, and quickly moved out of his chair and onto the floor. Disassembling his chair, he leaned through to put the wheels, then the chair frame, through the narrow opening. Pulling himself through after, he rebuilt the chair not so patiently, muttering to himself, in some gallows' humor, about the good old days when the ADA was actually enforced...

He locked the wheels to stabilize the chair and worked his way back into the seat, still quietly– although he knew it wouldn't matter soon, he wanted to be in control of the noise, and not a victim of it.

Settling feet into the footrests of the chair frame, he looked around, peering into the larger, open room and again trying the door in the hall. All was as it had been, and it was still quiet. With a deep breath, murmuring a prayer of hope that this was the right move, and another of more self-encouragement that he could pull this off, he banged at the door, hard, rattling the handle, and began call, loudly, "Max! Max...? Hey Max, you here? Jondy?" A pause... "Hey? Anyone here? _Maxxxx...!_"

**MAMA'S CHAMBER: 3:21 A.M.**

"Briley--"

His mother's voice disturbed the flitting dreams he'd been having as he napped in the armchair in the corner of her room.

"Briley–wake up" she hissed. "Someone is out there..."

He listened, and agreed that even in the heavy building the sounds that filtered through the ventilation systems, back here to what had to have been offices and small showrooms, back in the day, echoed from the large workshop area. Someone was inside.

It certainly wasn't someone who was sneaking up on them. It was a man's voice, caterwauling, clearly looking for someone–

"_Max..."_ He heard, echoing. That was the name 452 had been repeating, all this time...

With all his planning and organizing, it hadn't really occurred to him that 452 would have anyone come looking for her–if it was another X5, he would have a real problem. The man quickly got to his feet to grab and load the tranquilizer gun with AR-320, to put down any potential attack from this intruder. He gulped, moisture beading along his hairline. He had no plan for how to handle this, and really wasn't too good at making decisions on his feet...

Swallowing hard, hearing the voice still looking for "Max," and even adding "Jondy" as it rang through the empty warehouse, Briley came silently down the hall and unlocked the entry door as quietly as he could. Peering out around the door in trepidation, Briley blinked, fearful of who–or what–awaited him...

And he snorted, straightening in superior relief, at the sight: the intruder was a man, back to him, in a wheelchair, bleating the names in powerless frustration. And the chair, an expensive custom model as compared to his mother's industrial issue, told him that the chair was a permanent accessory and the man dependent on it–and suddenly this interruption became no threat at all...

**ELLIS STREET WAREHOUSE: 3:27 A.M.**

"Excuse me" the grating, male voice interrupted the performance, the voice carrying some annoyance ... and Logan slowly pivoted to see a nondescript, bespectacled man looking at him in irritation, as if he were an inconvenient interruption, like a pesky salesman –not some stranger showing up in a deserted warehouse at 4 A.M. "Well, what do you want?" he demanded, testily. He held a firearm by his side–one that Logan realized was a veterinarian's dart gun. Logan focused, refusing to let the oddness of the situation throw him.

"I'm looking for someone" Logan dug in and used every ounce of experience, every ounce of acting skill he'd honed as a journalist who had wheedled and cajoled and charmed information from countless sources, pulling out a vacuous smile–if his host was going to ignore the hour, he would, too. "She was supposed to meet her sister here, but that was hours ago."

The man snorted. "_Sister._.." He mocked, low.

Logan managed an innocent look, to play on his reaction. "Her name's Max," he dared. "Have you seen her?"

"Maybe." The man looked down on him, smug and superior. For once Logan embraced it, hoping the man was like so many who discounted anyone in a chair... "who are you?"

"My name's Logan Cale." he began. "And I just wanted to be certain..."

"Logan Cale?" The man's expression actually softened slightly as he blinked in surprise. "The writer? The series last month, on the chemical dumping off the coast–you wrote that?"

It took all his strength for Logan to keep his jaw from dropping. He was sick with anxiety for Max, hunting for her amid abandoned buildings, far from safety, and this creep was a _fan? _"Yes, I did–you read it?" he smiled._ 'I swear I'll quit writing,'_ he vowed silently, and managed to continue, "It's gotten a lot of nice attention... _'I can't do this...'_

"All three parts–it was excellent" the man's face smoothed, as he reflected. "You said exactly what needed to be said, what with the destruction of the bay waters."

'_This is insane_,' Logan thought. "I'm glad you think so, thanks."

The man had relaxed somewhat, understanding now filling his eyes. "So you're really not a friend of 452, are you? You're on a story... or were you looking for her because of ..." The man's eyes dropped to his legs...the chair... "You know..."

Logan blinked for a moment at the non sequitur: The man had just used Max's designation without preamble, indicating at least some knowledge of Manticore and an assumption that Logan knew about it, too. And what the hell did he mean with the reference to his injury? He decided that trying to bluff the guy without knowing more was too dangerous, so stuck to the truth and slowly, he shook his head. "Nooo...she's just a friend." When the man's eyes narrowed, suspicion growing, Logan explained, "She said she was going to meet the sister she hadn't seen in years. That was almost twenty hours ago." Logan's eyes met the challenge. "And this was the address she was given."

The man sneered. "She has a sister–that's what she told you?"

Logan looked long at the man, feeling less concern for his own safety as he felt more worry for Max, knowing his nerves were fraying from fatigue and anxiety. With an effort, he cocked his head, but his smile was less affable. "What are you getting at?" he dared. "Do you know either of these women?"

"I know what they are" the man actually laughed a little, a derisive sound, again nodding at the chair, "apparently more than you do."

It was too much. "Look, you twisted little shit–where is she?" Logan's growled outburst appeared to startle–and anger–the man, who raised the dart gun toward Logan's chest, but did so awkwardly, doubtless not a familiar action for him..

"452 isn't done here yet. When we're done with her, we'll let her go." He looked down his nose to the man's motionless legs, and smirked, "I hope you won't need much–she's not going to last much longer. The sedative I had to use...turns out it's toxic when used over time. I hadn't realized that until we'd started. By then, there wasn't much I could do..."

Logan felt anger surge through him. Enraged by this slimy little man and his own impotence to help Max, fueled even further by exhaustion and continued guilt for her disappearance, Logan's hand shot out before the other could react. Logan grabbed the man's wrist and twisted, violently, out and up, hearing the sickening crunch of bone that somewhere past the anger, surprised even Logan. In his pain the man buckled, causing the dart gun to fly out of his other hand and arc across the floor. "She's done _now_" Logan rumbled, cruelly maintaining the pressure in the splintered joint "and you're going to take me to her."

"No.." the man whimpered in pain and his own surprise.

"Where is she??" Logan yelled. The man bent with the twisting motion Logan applied to his arm, but suddenly brought his free arm to the chair and, bracing himself, kicked at it, thrusting the chair back and forcing Logan to break his hold and grab onto the wheels to remain upright and seated.

Now freed, the man scrambled toward the dart gun, across the wide entry.

"No you don't--" Logan snarled, pivoting sharply and thrusting his chair forward in a move he'd honed on the basketball court. "Damn it..." he swore as the other neared the weapon and was crouching to reach for the handle...

Until Logan slammed into him from behind, full force, the collision knocking Cale forward to grab the smaller man, tackling him still in mid air, both crashing the last few feet to the floor. Driven now, Logan's aim was perfect when he seized the swelling, damaged wrist and pulled up, hard, pinning the man beneath him. Briley could not move without seeing stars, the pain excruciating.

"Where is she?" Logan hissed.

_...to be continued..._

_**...WE INTERRUPT OUR PROGRAM...**_

**WEATHER ALERT**_** .....Be advised there is a FLUFF WATCH in effect...this does not mean that fluff is in your immediate vicinity, only that conditions are right for the development of fluff ...the WATCH will be in effect for the next few chapters.... **_

_**...stay tuned...**_


	9. Chapter 8

**_DISCLAIMER: (cackling manically) Mine, all mine....!!! (Just foolin.' They still are just borrowed, except for the mama & son whack jobs. Again, I'll be happy to give _them_ away.)_**

_**THANKS AGAIN TO ALL of you –but for the previous chapter I owe a special thanks to IdleHands452: being a hard core pacifist, I just never thought I'd be inclined to do much in the way of physical/fight scenes, even for DA...but with IdleHands452's repeated concerns about ass-kicking, it started to sound like a good idea, and it seemed that Logan ought to get a shot at it. So thanks, IH–even if it wasn't the sort you'd envisioned, I hope it did the trick. AND TO "ME" --unhunch those shoulders!! I may not have gotten my work done for the office this weekend, but got back here with another installment! (try to guess which is more fun!)  
**_

_**POINT OF ORDER: What's coming up may be not so much fluff as angst...I'm the new kid on the block and just call it ALL the "mooshy stuff." Regardless of the technical term (and with apologies to the strict constructionists out there), the watch remains in effect...**_

**CHAPTER 8**

**WAREHOUSE DISTRICT**

Logan lay sprawled across the smaller man, held frozen in place by his swelling wrist tight in Cale's fist and the dead weight of Logan's lower body on his. "_Where is she_?" Logan repeated, squeezing the wrist as a reminder. "I'll find her, with or without your help, and I promise you it will be far better for you to tell me now."

"Please..." the man begged now. "My mother was dying. Just a few more transfusions and ...Max... can go..."

"...What happened to 'the sedative is toxic'?" Logan demanded, breathing heavily. "You think you're going to keep Max around after poisoning her?"

"..but...X5s were made to be disposable..." He said in all sincerity. "And Mother is...was...dying..." he explained, his tone strained because of the pain in his wrist. The man was blithely unaware of why his reasoning was vile–and Logan felt a new wave of loathing rise at the realization. He had to get away from this man or he'd do more permanent damage–and more importantly, he needed to find Max–now. This stuff about the sedative gave him chills. Looking around, he wondered what he could find to incapacitate the little kidnapper–and his eyes fell suddenly on the dart gun...

Logan stretched across the pharmacist's form, which twisted in pain as Logan's movement jostled the hand that held the man's shattered wrist, vice-like. One swipe, then another, and finally Logan was able to coax the barrel into place where he could grab it. Hefting it into his arm, Logan brought the barrel with its loaded darts flat against the man's thigh...

"No!! No, please, don't use that..."

"Why? Safe enough for Max...let's see, how many doses are in this thing?" Events were taking over Logan now as he wanted to hurt this man, terrorize him as he must have hurt Max...his breath came harshly, his words, guttural, as he pulled back the trigger. "Some for you...some for 'mother'..."

"Logan!!"

The voice barely registered, as Logan again jerked on the mangled wrist and moved the gun barrel to under the quaking man's chin. "Just a sedative, isn't it? As I recall you aimed it at me, too..."

"Logan, stop--"

Cale knew who ran up behind him; he'd known the voice, even expected it, but was so filled with anger and hatred for the vermin in his grasp he didn't waver, never having felt such a cold, powerful force before. "Let's see who's disposable..." he glowered...

And felt a hand grab his shoulder from above, insistent but cautious, guiding his arm down and away. "C'mon, Logan, it's over" Matt's voice soothed, the voice of an officer trained to diffuse adrenaline-driven crises. "Let me handle this." After a beat, watching his friend carefully, the detective deftly guided Logan to roll back off the other man, in doing so allowing him to sit, hands propping him upright. All the while keeping his eyes on Briley, Matt crossed a few feet over to retrieve Logan's chair and bring it close.

"Where is she? Your friend–is she alright?" Matt asked. He watched Logan's eyes round in realization as he came back to earth.

"I don't know–I've got to find her..." Logan hurried to struggle back into the chair, seeing that the hallway door stood open, left ajar after Briley came to investigate. Single-mindedly now, Logan tore into the hall and pulled at doors to open them, finding two of the five locked ...pivoting in a tight circle he slammed back out to the entry where Matt was pulling the man to his feet.

"The keys, damn it!" He grabbed at the man, and added, "and which room? Two are locked..."

The watery eyes flickered for a moment, as if suddenly remembering something overlooked before. He said, vaguely, "My mother's room is at the end of the hall..." When he made no move to find his keys, Matt fished in the pocket where he'd just located them in a quick pat-down, and gave them to Logan.

"Are they on this ring?" Logan demanded, "_are they?_" The remembered words about the sedative Max had been given kept Logan's nerves pulled near breaking as he thought about the effects of the drug– it could be even minutes would make a difference...

Defeated, the pharmacist nodded, dazedly. Without more Logan spun around and sped to the first locked room, fumbling the keys into the lock. "_Please, please..._" he heard himself breathe...

And slammed open the door to look inside to a metal gurney, IV tree at its side, tubes leading down and back to the small, slender form--Max's form--pale and limp and barely breathing...

"_Max--_" he launched himself at gurney, and, as firmly as he could in his panic, grasped the cool arm in his left to hold it steady, pulled back the paper tape over the needle, and drew out the metal cannula imbedded in her vein. That she did not even stir caused his throat to burn, as he murmured again, "Max..." moving to feel for the pulse at her neck. It was there, but thready and weak... with a sudden glance up to the bottle holding another inch of the fluid that had been pumping in to her over the past hours, Logan grabbed at it and, turning it upright, shoved it into the bag slung across the back of his chair. Glancing around at the single, open cart, he shoved in the other few bottles and vials in view. He could have the contents analyzed; it might make a difference in helping her recover...

Maybe the little rat bastard could give him some clue as to what was needed to bring Max back... he'd tell him that Matt would go easier on him if he would help, maybe let his mother walk out of here, without charges ... If only the results of this nightmare weren't lasting...

Logan shoved the last bottle into his backpack and came back to Max's side, drawing his palm across her forehead, looking for a sign that she was close to consciousness. "Max..." he crooned now, softly, insistent. "Max, c'mon, wake up, we're here..." He thought he could tell that her breathing shifted, and tried again. "Max? We're going to get you out of here..."

This time a small pucker creased her eyebrows, and a low sound came from her throat. His eyes suddenly filled...

"C'mon. I've got you..." Without thought as to how he was going to negotiate this, Logan carefully scooped the limp form into his lap, across his chest, leaning her side into him and dipping to pull her arm up around his neck. "Can you hold on, Max? Can you help me do this?"

At his words, Max seemed to rouse a little more and her eyes fluttered open, weakly. "Logan..." she managed, her own eyes filling, "...I knew you'd come..." she breathed...

He blinked hard, swallowed the huskiness in his voice as he pulled her to him. "Of course I did," he murmured. Holding her close now, Logan buried his face in her hair, as the relief flooding him left him weak, unable to stop himself from this, from cradling her to his chest and brushing his lips across her forehead...

...but she would remember, and when she was better she would kick his ass...oh, damn, how he prayed she'd be able to kick his ass for this...

Managing to shift a bit to give her a better seat on his lap, he tried to get a grip on himself and to figure out how to get them both out of there. "Max, can you hold on?" He guided her other arm up over his shoulder, felt another ripple of relief as her hand curled around his neck...and was nearly knocked flat when he felt her then nudge her way in to nestle closer and curl up into his chest, a purred sigh escaping...

He managed to push them both smoothly and gently on down the hall to see Matt in the doorway, successfully battering the jammed electric doors open widely enough to accommodate both pedestrians and those on wheels. Logan barely noticed that Briley was now in the firm grasp of Bling, who had apparently arrived after his exit, the backup he promised Matt for coming alone. "How is she?" Matt asked, concerned.

"I'm not sure yet–she's not at all herself but she came around a little." Logan's eyes never left the pale woman in his lap. Bling's eyes took both of them in, quietly assessing. His brow darkened in concern.

"You're sure you don't want an ambulance?"

Logan nodded vigorously. "Hospitals these days..." Oddly grateful for the moment that his own experience–and his money-- went far in getting guys like Matt to buy an excuse like this, he explained, "I know a doctor who will come to my place and treat her; he's good, and she can get better care that way. If she needs hospitalization, there's a private clinic...I want her to feel safe, and I'm not too sure about our municipal facilities these days–the clinic is quieter, in the country." he embroidered.

Matt nodded. "Can I do anything?"

"Anything you can find out about the drugs they gave her, if there's something that she needs to counter them...what we should do. I don't know, maybe his mother knows something" Logan murmured, idly. "I'll give you a statement in the morning, anything you need to hold him."

"Okay, Logan--"

"And I'd like to talk to him, too, when this all settles down..." Matt's eyes narrowed, and Logan offered, "He has some information that could harm a lot of people, Matt– it might be that Eyes Only could offer him something that would encourage him to keep it to himself..."

Matt looked uncertain, suddenly, whether or not he still wanted to be a part of this. "A threat, Logan...? Or a bribe?"

The concern got through even Logan's distracted, muddled thoughts, and he shook his head, relaxing a little. "Neither, Matt–you have my word. And it won't be anything to help or hinder this case."

Sung hesitated, then nodded his agreement. "I'll arrange it."

Logan nodded grimly, watching Bling walk the pharmacist, handcuffed, to Sung's car outside so Matt could go down the hall to bring Briley's mother along, found by Bling a few minutes earlier to be alone, testy with events–and unequipped to be a threat to anyone, short of a shot from her still-arrogant tongue. Watching a moment as he saw Bling speaking, low, to the prisoner, Logan turned back to add, "Matt, I'm in your debt on this one, more than anything else you've done... I know what I asked you to do was a risk to both your safety and your job, and..." Exhaustion was wreaking havoc with Logan's ability to find words, and to hold his emotions together. "Anything I can ever do–I'm absolutely serious, I have you covered..."

As he considered the toll this had taken on the journalist, Matt's face softened into a relaxed, boyish grin, and he shrugged, clapping a hand on Logan's shoulder, supportively, as he turned to go. "Hey–we all gotta stay strong in the struggle, right?" He tipped his chin knowingly at the man. "Take care of her, Logan."

After depositing the pharmacist in Sung's car, Bling walked back to the Aztec where Logan sat cradling Max, as he looked up to his trainer with eyes begging for words that would heal her. "Let me get this in back" Bling bent toward the empty wheelchair at the curb. "The guy was willing to talk a little."

As the therapist stowed the disassembled chair, Logan again drew the whisper thin form of Max close to him, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her even closer as he felt her again curl needily into his chest. As many times as he had imagined feeling his arms like this around her, and hers around him, he would have given anything if it hadn't happened at all, not like this...depleted, he leaned his cheek on her soft hair, willing her to recover...

The driver's side door opened, and as Bling got behind the wheel, leaving his own ride behind to be picked up later, Logan lifted his head, wearily, waiting. Pulling away from the warehouse, Bling began, "The guy's a pharmacist– his mother was a doctor, developed some of these drugs herself. He gave me some basic information I can pass on to a lab tech I know, who can do an initial analysis on the drugs. And I called Beverly on the way over. Once you know what's in her, Beverly might be able to help decide if she needs anything to help sleep it off."

"How does she seem to you, Bling?" Logan asked, still fearful for Max, as he looked into the beautiful face, composed and silent now. "She's barely breathing..."

"I know..." The big man soothed, "but she spoke to you?"

"A little..."

"Knew who you were–recognized what was happening?" At Cale's nod, he shrugged, "I'd think those were good signs." He glanced over to Logan, to admit, "I slipped back to see Mama, when Sung was with him." He nodded back toward Sung's car. "I suppose she had no reason to not be truthful about what she said, now. According to her, once the drugs are withdrawn, the effects recede–they won't continue to do damage. It will take Max a little while to recover, but she won't become any worse than when you pulled the drug. And, typically, those who survive the drugs don't have any lasting effects."

Logan shivered, looking up at Bling. "Those who survive?" He looked back to the woman he held. "Were we that close to losing her?"

"Don' matter now" Bling said evenly, a note more upbeat, to avoid Logan's figuring out exactly how close it had been. "You saved the day, man. Pretty good–maybe even good enough for me to hold off a day or two before I kick your ass for getting yourself mangled up..." He glanced over to see what effect his words might have had, and was disturbed to see that Cale barely registered them. He fell silent, understanding that these hours had taken their toll on them both. And the therapist began to wonder about the lasting effects on the hero almost more than he did on the woman in his arms...

_...to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 9

_**DISCLAIMER: (Insert any from previous chapters here.)**_

_**THANK YOU again for the kind words, encouragement, and chuckles. What fun it's been to read everyone's reactions! The time and thoughts shared have been greatly appreciated.**_

**CHAPTER 9**

**FOGLE TOWERS**

Once back at the penthouse, Bling was quiet, sober with the realization that Max was not the only victim of the corrupt pharmacist: his employer had gone through his own emotional battering over the past 24 hours that rivaled the physical one he'd suffered. Bling didn't even try to suggest that he be the one to carry Max inside, even though it would have been far easier; Logan's eyes were glazed with a feverish intensity that had the trainer standing nearby for the first opportunity to tend to Logan's wounds and give him a thorough once-over. He was wise enough to recognize it would have to wait until Max was looked after to Logan's satisfaction.

He'd convinced Logan to let him examine Max to be sure no physical injuries were missed while she was still unresponsive, and to wrap her in a pair of Logan's flannel drawstrings and a soft T-shirt. To fill the time as Bling did so, Logan went to fetch extra pillows and blankets back to the guest room, even changing the unused, cold sheets on the bed to fresh ones, sweet smelling from the linen closet. He looked around vaguely for anything more he could add, for her comfort, and found nothing other than some candles, some delicately scented...he brought them back into the room and lit them, hoping he'd found the ones Max had liked the best.

Bling satisfied himself that, beyond the potential after-effects of the drugs they'd used on her and some dehydration, nothing appeared to be seriously amiss with Max. He carried her to the waiting guest bedroom from the training room, where he'd examined her, touched up a couple scrapes, and injected a field saline mixture to combat the dehydration. Laying her on the bed, he stepped back as Logan pulled up alongside, close to the groggy form, tucking the fresh linens around her and tenderly tracing away the last hours with a warm, damp washcloth across her brow and temples. His check of Max done, Bling grabbed the small box he'd filled and went downstairs to wait: Bling had made the call to a friend working graveyard shift in a nearby clinic; a second call dispatched a runner from the Informant Net to meet Bling in the garage to take drug samples he'd packed up for testing to the waiting tech. In only a very few minutes the runner appeared, and Bling turned back to the elevator to ride back upstairs.

Coming back into the penthouse, he glanced into the guest room from the hall to see Logan hunched over Max in obsessive worry, a far cry from the normal, "we're not like that," feigned-cavalier facade he affected. Bling frowned again, knowing this was more than just the last 24 hours. The man was smitten with the woman who lay before him, in denial about the depths of those feelings, and unwilling to believe that he could act on them. What would this particular adventure do to him–to them? Presuming that Max would bounce back once she had a few hours away from the stuff–after all, though groggy, she'd demonstrated that all systems were intact –would this change things? Would his conviction that Max was better off without him weigh even more heavily on Logan now? Bling suspected that, if so, his difficulty in accepting life as a paraplegic would be even greater...

"Hey..." Bling came in to speak, softly. "How 'bout your turn? Let me take a look, get you some clean clothes."

Logan shook his head stubbornly. "She might wake up–I don't want her to be alone again."

"How's she gonna like it when she's here and you're off recovering from untreated injuries in the hospital?" His tone made Logan blink up at him, momentarily. He hadn't intended the irritation to come through, but Bling too was human, worried about both of his charges. He relented. "Here's a thought–get out of those pants, put on some boxers, and meet me back here. No reason I can't look you over in here, while you're waiting." He nodded, encouragingly, toward the master bedroom. "Go on–I'll wait here, with her."

Logan wavered, green eyes haunted as he looked at his therapist, as he looked back to the pale but untroubled face on the pillow...without speaking he softly released first one brake, then the other, and backed a bit to pivot, come around the bed, and head off quickly to do as Bling suggested.

The therapist released the breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Glancing back toward the form disappearing down the hall, he looked back to the sleeping woman and came closer. He thought he actually saw a tiny bit of color coming back to her cheeks, and was gratified to see that her breathing was easy, rhythmic. A brief touch of her forehead and cheek assured him that her temp was within acceptable range...she'd bounce back, he thought. At least physically. But he wondered again about what would happen to the odd little tug-of-war that was the relationship between Max and Logan...

The whir of rubber on wood brought a rise of Bling's eyebrows, as Logan had changed faster than he ever had, back in black boxers and T-shirt, feet bare, a pair of sweats and socks draped across his lap, ready for the exam to be over. Bling stood aside as Logan came up to Max again, looking her over as if he'd been gone a week, and Bling stepped out to get the medical supplies he'd need, gritting his teeth silently at the long laceration he'd seen purpling now along Logan's thigh.

Logan was oblivious to Bling's concerns, his attention fully drawn by the quiet, perfect form in his guest room. Afraid to wake her, afraid she wouldn't rouse, he carefully traced back her hair, brushed his knuckle along her cheek...even the adrenaline that had been keeping him going had faded some time ago, but he stubbornly focused on her, to be sure she was alright...to keep at bay all the memories of the past 24 hours, what he'd done, what he'd become...what he'd learned about Manticore...what he hadn't...

Bling came back in the room, bringing with him one of the bar chairs from the kitchen. Logan had recently taken to hopping up into them when working at the bar, the movement now mastered, and the higher, better angle would make for an easier time for Bling. "Bring it over and up, alright?" He encouraged Logan, softly. "You and I both will have a better angle to see what we need to see." Logan initially made a face, prickly with the fuss, but conceded the need, looking himself at the long, deep gash, and seeing he would have a better view of Max as she slept. He wheeled over, locking his chair to make the transfer, and pulled up easily into the seat as Bling stood near, unobtrusively making sure it remained steady, away from the kitchen bar corralling it. "Right back..." He was gone for the moment it took to return to the training room for the wheeled stool he kept there. Straddling the stool in a graceful move, the trainer grunted as he sat. First looking long and carefully into the thigh wound, he finally asked, "You wanna tell me about this?"

"I cut my leg..." Bling wasn't sure if it was humor, testiness, or complete exhaustion. He grunted again and peered at his charge.

"That much I'd managed. You forget I'm a professional." Bling allowed the moment to take a deep breath and regain his usually endless equanimity. "Any specifics you can offer, such as when, and on what?"

Logan's eyes left Max for a moment as he looked guiltily to Bling, then back. "Not really; sorry. It had to be somewhere around midnight, give or take a couple hours either way."

Bling's eyes narrowed. "What the hell were you doing out there?"

Again, a wan, vague look. "Oh...you know...just crawling around out there–looking for her..." His last words were nearly a whisper, negating any humored irony that may have been offered with the first.

"Uh-huh" the trainer disapproved. He started a more careful and thorough visual inspection of Logan's legs, feet and ankles, noting for the first time that there were bruises and scrapes along them, most fresh and reddening. "Damn, Logan" Bling breathed, more to himself than his patient. He knew it wouldn't matter, anyway...

He continued his inspection, insisting with the appearance of all the battle scars that Logan be examined everywhere, a thorough assessment not only below his level of sensation but above–and when Logan dutifully pulled off his t-shirt, Bling found a couple deep bruises beginning along his ribs and back, with plenty others peppered there, as well as along his arms.

Bling grimaced. "You're gonna be sore" he murmured. He wasn't as concerned about the upper body bruising–the basketball team Logan had joined led to some color, on occasion–but the deep bruises weren't the best news for a SCI patient–and the fact that the battering was in addition to the cut, and followed a recent infection of his knee...

Bling pulled out a thermometer which he managed to get into Logan's ear for the 10 seconds required, despite the patient's complaints. He had turned back to look again at the gash, trying to decide if too much time had gone by to stitch the wound, when a small voice murmured from the bed, sounding troubled, then called, a child-like plea. "...Logan?"

"Yeah, Max; I'm here..." The exhausted man suddenly sparked to life, green eyes shooting a quick entreaty to Bling, who simply rocked back to stand and steady the stool. Logan's transfer was instantaneous, and he didn't stop to adjust his feet, immediately coming to her side. "Hey, Max..." he looked into the deep brown eyes blinking groggily up to him, leaning toward her to reach a caressing hand toward her brow. Halting midway–she was awake now, he reasoned, what would she think–he nonetheless dared to trace back a curl delicately, trying an encouraging smile. "You waking up?" He barely noticed that the trainer quietly stepped out of the room.

"Maybe" she managed to joke. "Where's the tank that hit me?"

His smiled, starting to believe she'd be alright. "Totaled" he promised. They hadn't even heard back yet from the lab tech, but Max was lucid for the most part, and griping...good signs, he told himself. "How ya feelin'?"

"Like the tank won." Her eyes closed, tiredly, opened again, glancing up and over briefly, then closed. "Looks as if I've gotten a room at the Cale Hotel for Widows...Small Children..." She started to fade out again.

"...and lost animals...." He whispered. "Yeah..." He watched her closely as her eyes flickered again, fighting sleep, and asked, softly, "What is it, Max?" His voice was soothing, comforting. "What do you need?"

"Logan...stay here, with me? Please...?" The brown eyes opened again and in them, Logan saw that she fought the memories–whether of the past hours, or of Manticore, or both, he couldn't know–but in her eyes Logan saw Max's need to let go and let someone else keep her safe, just so she could rest, if only for a little while...

"I'm here, Max; and I'll be here when you wake. Just get some rest..." As she relaxed, letting down her guard and drawing a deep breath, Logan carefully lifted her hand, curling his around it, and sighed. 'What a twenty four hours it had been,' he admitted to himself...and began to allow the thoughts in. Max had been rendered helpless, weak...and he had turned vicious, cruel...brutal. The memory of what he had done to the man who had held Max captive knotted his stomach. Never in his life had he lost control like that, to act solely from anger, without thought. As he considered what he'd become he felt sickened–and fearful that it still lingered inside of him and could surface again, unexpectedly. How could he continue Eyes Only– how could he hold his head up to Sebastian, or Matt, or Bling–or Max–if he was as base as the criminals he fought?

But for the moment, he watched Max as her breathing again deepened in sleep, and reached up to trace her jaw, gently. Sitting up a little, he understood that his time with her, like this, was ending. Lifting her hand to his lips to press it there, long moments, he sighed...and laid her hand back down, backing up a little to wait for Bling's return...

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 10

_**DISCLAIMERS: Not my characters, no matter how hard I wish!**_

_**THANKS TO ALL OF YOU who have read, especially those who have offered ideas and suggestions and encouragement–more, more; please, more! And to Alaidh: One bit just for you–suppose you'll believe it was all just a cleverly planned plot device–or me just making lemonade now? Either way, maybe this will resolve one little matter!**_

**CHAPTER 10: FOGEL TOWERS**

_The dream seemed to be on an endless loop, rising again and again when she closed her eyes: Zack running into her life long enough to get her attention so she could watch him running away...and now Jondy... oh, Jondy...she'd joined the dream but faceless, formless, out of her reach, dropping crumbs for her to follow that turned out to be false leads, empty hopes...a trap..._

_And she was still alone...despite all the time, all her efforts, she was alone and her brothers and sisters didn't know or didn't care...no matter how long she'd searched, there was no one there for her..._

_Until strong, steady arms lifted her from the dark, swirling depths, held her close and whispered that she would never be alone again..._

Max felt as if she'd been drifting, lost; unused to sleeping so long or being so disoriented, she could feel her muscles creak a tiny bit with the hours of bed rest. For someone who went days on merely a few hours of occasional sleep, the convalescence –and whatever they'd pumped into her--made her head feel cottony and muddled and achy...

And the gaps. As she lay still, eyes still closed, feeling pillows propping her up a bit, she rooted around in her memory and still found that so much of what had happened must still be missing, either completely or just out of reach, surfacing as a remembered emotion-- the feeling of loss, or of terrible, sweeping loneliness.

But she was safe now, feeling warmed and cared-for...as the sleep subsided she felt the soft, creamy slip of bed linens, fine ones of rich weave, along her skin, smelled the fresh, clean scent of them...felt the down pillows under her shoulders...Only Logan had such things, she reminded herself, burrowing a little deeper in the luxurious comfort. Logan, who had warned her to be careful, to wait for him, who tried to tell her that it wasn't Jondy at all...

Logan, who had come to her rescue, even though she'd ignored his warnings and his requests that she wait...all that and Logan had brought her out, brought her to his place...

...Logan had come to her rescue...

She suddenly remembered a moment, when she would rather have seen him than anyone else in the world, the ache of it returning with the memory...she remembered another small scrap, the worried voice of Logan in a cold, bare room, but when he came in he brought hope...

...She remembered being gathered in close to him, his strong arms protecting her when she was weak...his carrying her out to be safe...

...and in a sad moment she knew she had to have been dreaming at least some of it...at least the part where Logan swooped in to carry her out...maybe it was a hope she held for him, knowing it was so important to him, that one day he could do something like scooping her up and walking her into freedom, as she'd imagined he had done...

Maybe he _had_ been there. Maybe it had been his voice, even his arms...at least she knew this was his home, his bed, cradling her as she'd thought his arms had done, not so long ago...he had gotten her out, or at least had engineered her freedom, and at least one thing was right in the world: she might not have her siblings, maybe never would. But Logan was there for her and would not let her fall...

So many years, she reflected...so many years, she went her own way, avoided ties or alliances, waiting for her siblings... But look at her now. Not only Original Cindy, and everyone at her job...but Logan. Bling too, because of Logan. Logan was her guide, he got her back, he challenged and frustrated and "guilted her"...he fed her... he cared...and she realized that he banished that pain of loneliness she'd fought her whole, manufactured life...

Nestling further into Logan's sheets and pillows, feeling their warmth in both body and soul, she shifted, turning her head toward her right slightly...and she saw on the bed beside her, along her right side, a tousled head resting on a bent arm, the other arm flung out along her thigh, in exhausted oblivion. Max looked down at him, feeling a funny tug of tenderness to see the abandon with which Logan had succumbed, at her bedside...but as she roused a little more she knew she couldn't let him stay. Still, she lingered, another moment, to watch him sleeping. He looked like a little boy, spiky hair awry, innocent, untroubled. She wished he could have moments, awake, of such ease...

She lifted a hand to his shoulder, speaking softly, "Logan...? Logan, you need to get out of your chair for a while..." He started; looking up to her, he pushed to sit up and grimaced, every muscle stiff and sore. "Hey," she watched in concern, still woozy herself. "You okay?"

"Yeah; fine" he lied, and roused, blinking, to look to her in concern. "What about you? You look a little more conscious," he offered, hopefully.

She smiled softly. "Gettin' there" she managed. "Look, you need some sleep, and need to get out of that chair..." She knew he'd been up with her and felt the guilt of that add to the growing pang of self-recrimination for dragging him into the situation he'd warned her to avoid. "Bling will kick both our asses."

"I'm fine" he repeated, without thought, as he glanced at his watch–9:05. "It hasn't been that long, and..." he hesitated, then went on, "I promised to hang around while you slept, didn't I?"

She looked at the expressive green eyes that carried so much, and heard herself say, "Then why not come up here, stretch out for a while..." The flicker in those green eyes of withdrawal and impossibility that she could see, even in her groggy state, made her add, "there's plenty of room, you can stay, and Bling will leave us both alone..." and hoping to cajole him along, she added, "and if you even try to take advantage of a girl in a weakened condition, I'll kick your ass as soon as I'm able..."

At least he smiled, looking away to laugh softly, almost self-conscious. Drawing a breath, exhaling with a sigh, he grinned, wryly, the sadness not gone, "Well, as tempting as that offer is, I'll have to decline." He looked back up into the sweet face, near his. "I need to get going pretty soon, anyway..." At the silent question in her eyes, he said quickly "I'm supposed to meet Matt in a couple hours. But Bling will be here, in case you need anything."

In the silence that followed, as she saw the unwavering, unconditional support he offered her, Max felt a wave of regret for her stubborn recklessness. "Logan, I'm sorry..." her words came suddenly, her remorse palpable. "I didn't think about the consequences..."

"Don't, Max..." he soothed. "You're home...you're safe. That's all that matters now." Without thinking, he raised his hand again to her brow, brushing back the curling wisps of hair along her temple, unconsciously trying to brush away the worry there. "Just close your eyes...it won't be long now and you'll be feeling like yourself again..." As she looked up at him again, he urged, "C'mon...rest now. You can worry about who will be kicking whose ass later."

His words did the trick; as she softened to laugh a little at his words, her eyes closed, tiredly. Within moments, her breathing deepened into sleep. And Logan continued to sit close, at her side, still tracing back the concerns from her brow...

...............................................

Bling had insisted that Logan report for inspection immediately after his shower, so his sutures could be examined, the wound dried thoroughly, and his leg patched properly. He didn't complain about it as much as Bling would have expected, and the therapist suspected it wasn't a good sign. Coming into the training room, dutifully, in fresh boxers and t-shirt, Logan came alongside the training table and moved to push himself up and onto the workout bench, grimacing with the soreness and aches still remaining even after his steaming shower.

"You okay?" Bling asked, low, having added his hand on Logan's arm to steady him as he transferred, seeing a tremor in his arms with the pain.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" The tone was distant...protective. Bling had heard it before. Logan was building a wall, retreating behind it–now that Max was healing, the veneer would be back in place over Logan's emotions and he would never admit to being any other way.

"The last twenty four hours, for a start." Bling tapped his shoulder. "C'mon–shirt off." At the glower of the green eyes as they swung toward him, Bling did not relent. "Whenever you're ready." He stood his ground, unmoving, waiting for Logan to comply...

Which he did, his sigh a bit shorter for the irritation. Bling walked around him, his grimace at the sight not hidden. He shook his head, finally. "What went on, before we got there?" he asked softly, all attitude gone. "He said you broke his wrist, just by grabbing it and twisting. And this...?" His dark eyes looked into Logan's, veiled now in self-protection, as he indicated the bruises deepening along his ribs and hip. "What happened out there?"

The green eyes looked away, and Logan shook his head. "Doesn't matter" his voice was quiet. "Max is back, and the guy is in custody. Nothing else matters." he pronounced.

"I suppose not" Bling countered, "unless you're interested in keeping you sane."

Cale's eyes looked to Bling's momentarily, almost meeting the challenge, then looked away. "Not part of the job description, is it?" he returned, woodenly. "And you should have left, hours ago..."

"No extra charge" Bling moved around to look more closely at the sutures he'd placed a few hours before, and got to business. "We're going to have to work on this, Logan. The laceration went into the muscle, and as it heals we're..."

He trailed off as he glanced up and, at the same time Logan did, saw Max standing in the doorway, unsteady, looking pale and smaller than when bouncing around at full power. Her eyes had grown large as she looked at Logan, bruised and battered. A look of guilt filled her eyes, as she came close, fingers reaching tentatively to trace the skin near the stitches along his thigh. "Logan..." Her huge, dark eyes raised to his, slowly, "What happened?"

He swallowed, looked away, and shrugged. "Had an argument with a pharmacist."

But she shifted with him, and the beautiful eyes caught his and held them, filling. "I'm sorry, Logan..." she whispered. After a moment, her eyes dropped, remorseful, to look back to the sutured laceration along his leg. "You were right; I shouldn't have gone in alone like that, without thinking..." she whispered, "and look what happened..."

"Hey," he resurfaced, unable to resist this sad, hurt side of Max, unable to let her take on this blame, and even managed a smile for her. "Can you imagine your _not_ going, as soon as you could?"

"It was stupid of me; I should have known it was a set-up." She shook her head, sinking down onto the stool near the bench. "Why would Jondy have a picture of herself from back then, of her bar code? And how could she have a piece of our uniforms...?"

Logan shook his head, not understanding, "Wasn't that all you were given to wear?"

"That–and nightgowns" she said in a small voice. "We ran at night–after lights out."

Logan suddenly had an image of a dozen kids, racing through frozen, snowy woods on a February night–in nightshirts, probably barefoot...his eyes softened in compassion as he looked at her bowed form... "Max..." he tried, then again, "Max..." She finally looked up. "We'll find them." He felt a tug at his chest to see her eyes puddle a little at his words.

_...to be continued..._


	12. Chapter 11

_DISCLAIMERS: Yeah, yeah, see the old ones._

_THANKS TO ALL who have stopped by to write–it's fascinating to see what some readers like & some don't, what parts are mentioned and which ignored, what parts I may have enjoyed but get no comment, to see some people come & go while others stick around for the long haul. Nice to have such a wide range of folks out there!_

_A TOO-LONG A/N: In response to questions raised a few times recently: first, for those speculating where this is headed & what each character will do next: my goal all along has been, since announcing that it takes place between 411 and Prodigy, to take them on a ride, maybe throw them together pretty intensely, but then to get them BACK to where they were, therefore fitting into but not really changing their TV universe. I'm still hoping that's where we all come out. Once the dust clears, I'll be curious to see if you think I charged through this china shop without breaking too much._

_AND SPECIFICALLY, about the issue of getting Max & Logan into the car in Chapter 8–I sure did get my sequence out of whack! My thoughts were to allow enough time for Bling to stash Briley in Matt's car as well as to hold Max as Logan transferred, and tuck Max into Logan's lap. I see that I wrote Bling coming back from dealing with Briley without changing the language that made clear he did both (in whatever order) –good point! At the time I didn't want to draw it all out painstakingly, but the events should have been made clear. This, and those pesky spelling problems, come from ongoing sleep deprivation and doing these chapters in the wee, wee hours. Thanks for the observation. _

_ALL IN ALL, my great thanks for every one of your comments, questions, assistance, and support. It's been a powerful boost for this newbie! I promise you I wouldn't have posted nearly as much or as quickly without all the input I've gotten from everyone (uh-oh–now you know how to slow me down...)_

**CHAPTER 11:**

SEATTLE POLICE–CENTRAL DIVISION

Matt had called Logan to tell him that Briley Morrison was scheduled for video arraignment at 1:30 that afternoon–following that, he was likely to be transported out of central to county, and he'd probably have a lawyer standing by to start telling him not to talk to anyone about anything. So despite the aches Logan felt with every push of his chair, the bit of difficulty he was having, still, transferring ...and the lovely, recovering woman who was being tended in his home where he should be, he was here, across the street from central lock-up, waiting for Matt to have Morrison brought up to a holding cell so they could "chat."

Sitting by Matt's desk back in the detective's squad room, his press credentials out on his lap as an explanation for anyone too curious, Logan was forced to think again about the events of the previous night, remembering what this man had put Max through. His jaw worked in anger, dwelling on what he'd just learned from Matt: apparently the man had added the metal gate Logan had seen, so she couldn't escape, had manufactured drugs and set up shop, draining blood from Max and transfusing his mother, letting mom rest in between and packing up extra pints from Max in the fridge...he'd set up one room, spartan and clinical, in which Max would be captive, and another for his mother, a picture of comfort and charm. Hell, he'd even prepared a room to watch Max come in, waiting until just the right moment to shoot her with tranquilizers, distant and safe from her. ' _Coward,_' Logan thought. Even when in Logan's grip, in pain, caught, the freak didn't seem to think anything was wrong with the vampire act. _' Ghoul,' _Logan burned...

At least Max was coming back, and, as promised, seemed none the worse for wear. Beverly had called and spoken with Bling as Logan had slept, and said that other than plenty of liquids and nourishment, that she had no other suggestions for handling the overload of sedatives Max had received. The compounds were variants of some old, government-developed knock-out agents, and she believed that if Max showed no signs of respiratory problems or visual disturbances by now there would be no residual effects. Bling thought to ask her if there could be any concern for a patient who had a neurological serotonin- production deficiency, and she was confident that there would be no implications. With that news greeting him when he first emerged from the guest room after leaving Max to sleep, Logan's mood had been considerably lightened...

...to be darkened once again with his jail visit. _'At least here, the monster was contained'_ he'd mused...

...and at the choice of terms, Logan wondered of he'd meant the pharmacist...or himself.

"Okay–he's here." Matt came up from the back, to look at the waiting man. "Apparently no lawyer has shown up yet, but he's made a call." He looked at the man's face, and was reminded of what he'd seen hours before, as Logan held the fragile woman in his arms. Sung thought he understood it all now, why this was so important to Logan, why he wanted this handled quietly, why he wanted to talk with Morrison. He added, "It shouldn't get up on anyone's radar, even with the weird twist with the transfusions. Not too many involved, no big connections to anyone major...it can be all very low key, Logan."

Logan nodded. "Right." His voice lowered, and he added, evenly, "I owe you lifetimes for this one, Matt. Thank you–for both of us."

"I'm glad it worked out" the detective agreed. "I've been assigned, formally. Any further investigation or file prep, I do myself." It was about time the man had a break, Matt was thinking. All the work he did for Eyes Only, and all he'd gotten for his efforts was a bullet through the spine. He'd make sure this one was handled cleanly...for Logan.

SEATTLE CENTRAL BOOKING, DEPARTMENT OF DETENTION

It wasn't Logan's first time to Central Booking, but it was the first where the circumstances were so personal. Matt had walked Logan out but had not gone across the street with him; the officer at the desk had been expecting him and he was allowed back to the waiting area, where normally only lawyers, cops, and an occasional journalist like Logan might be allowed an audience. In another few minutes he was invited down a hall, a door opened for him. In the room, not a large one, was a bare conference table, two chairs...and Briley Morrison.

The men sized up each other as Logan came into the room, the door closed behind him by a guard, who did not move from the glass paneled door. Morrison was in jail overalls, bright orange, uncuffed –apparently the guards didn't think he was much of a threat. On his left arm was a thick, purple-wrapped cast with brilliantly white plaster edging his fingers and forearm, at either end...the image threw Logan off his focused, planned outline for the meeting, and without lifting his eyes from the sight, he said, tensely, "I'm...sorry...about your wrist...that's..." He swallowed, came back a little, "That's not me. It was more than was called for."

The man sat for a moment, then offered. "I called a lawyer."

"Yes, I know. But it's irrelevant, here. I'm not with the police; I'm not working on their behalf nor am I here in any capacity for them. Besides, this isn't an interrogation of any sort, so..." He considered the little man, who at the moment looked as harmless and normal as anyone. Logan felt an anger stirring at his benign appearance, but breathed it back in. "I'm just here to make you an offer."

"What's that?" The man looked skeptical.

"No matter what statement you give, or what you have to say about any of this, you make no mention of Manticore–especially, nothing about Max's connection with them, where you found her, what connection she has, anything at all about either her or them."

The man snorted a little, sensing his superior position in this. "And? What's in it for me?"

"Money, if that's important to you. But more valuable: papers, and a new identity and location, for when you get out, for both you and your mother, if that's what you want." Logan was the one who became stronger with this. "If you know anything about Manticore, you know that over the years, those who have any information about them and who are no longer working for them tend to disappear– either they get smart and find a way to lay low–or they are found and laid down, more... forcefully." Logan's eyes bored into those of the mousy pharmacist across from him. "It's in your own best interests–and your mother's, as well as Max's, if you say nothing about Manticore. My offer is just to sweeten the deal a little." He saw the man considering it, and added, "And I suspect if you want to make your time in here shorter, a plea bargain will keep you safe in here for a time, and out to take me up on my offer in not too many years."

"What about my mother in the mean time?"

Logan saw an opening, so dared, "If she's locked up too, she'll keep, while waiting for you..."

The man's eyes gave away his weakness. "I thought they let her go..."

"No, they let her _out._ On bond–but there are still charges pending that they plan to file."

"No, please, you can't..."

Logan sat back and cocked his head to the side. "I'm not the DA, either–I don't decide what cases to file and what not to file..."

Morrison met his eyes to say, low, intently, "It's just a fluke, you know, that I'm the one here, and you're the hero." His eyes narrowed. "No matter what you said about this not being you--" he lifted his cast-encased arm, "we each did what we had to do for someone we love." He wavered, sat back. "Okay. Deal–if you can find a way to keep them from charging her..."

"I can't promise that..."

"But I have a strong suspicion that you'll manage it."

Logan's eyes never wavered, but he relented only enough to nod, slightly. He saw the effect on the other as he did so; the pharmacist relaxed slightly, certain of Logan's ability to manage things. Drawing a breath, Logan asked, "You were there, weren't you? On their grounds, while all of it was going on?"

Morrison hesitated, guarded at first, but seemed to decide that he owed the man something. He nodded. "My mother was a geneticist, one of the team in to try and fine-tune the design, eradicate the flaws." He looked back to Logan. "You know that your friend had one of the faulty genes, that she has seizures?" At Cale's nod, he shrugged, looking away again, vaguely. "The medical team reported that all the flaws had been eradicated."

Logan's blood chilled; he didn't want to ask but the words came, anyway, "Eradicated–the faulty gene, or the person with it?"

The eyes swung back to focus on Logan, and considered. "It was all the same thing," he summed.

Logan's mouth was dry, but still, he asked. "How many?"

Briley's eyes narrowed, as he pulled back, suddenly calculating. "I'd have to check mother's notes."

Logan watched the man for a moment, then drew a breath to ask, "You've mentioned the term 'X5' several times" He watched the man, closely. "What do you mean?"

The man's eyebrows lifted, the superiority back. "I thought you were investigating Manticore" he smirked. "Seems if you have to ask that, you haven't gotten very far."

Logan would not let his frustration show, but forced himself to respond in kind, snorting, "Oh, but you know all about it, I suppose..." He wondered if he could slick the creep into giving up something...

Briley nodded "The medical teams were given apartments on grounds–I lived there, with mother, for over six years. And the last couple years, I assisted in the labs after school, sometimes." There was a glint of self-importance in his eyes, an awareness of the power he held in that moment. "Mr. Cale, if you want me to tell you what I know, I think we could arrange something–say, their dropping these charges."

Logan did all he could to meet the man's eyes, as he repeated, "I have no say in what cases the DA chooses to prosecute."

"Oh, c'mon, Mr. Cale" the man sat forward a bit. "They're overworked. And they would listen to _you"_ his smile was oily now. "You were involved, you come from an influential, wealthy family, you're a known journalist..." He paused and added, "and even if they won't, 452–_Max_–will. If _she_ wants them dropped..."

Logan could feel his jaw clench. "I believe we're done here." He backed up.

"Wait–you promised..."

"And I will honor that promise–as long as you do." He knew what Max would have him say, that any chance to get more information from an inside source was worth anything, even letting this bastard go free...but he couldn't, not after what he'd done to Max, Morrison wasn't getting off. Logan could only hope that after a few weeks in the state pen, he'd reconsider... "Not a word to anyone about Manticore or Max...and when your time's up, we'll get you and your mother relocated."

Morrison blinked, still unsure how his winning hand had lost. "How will I find you?"

Logan shifted to pull out a card, on which a post office box and a telephone number, without more, was printed. "Contact me through either if these, a week or so before you're out." He pivoted, without more.

"Mr. Cale--" Briley wavered, one last try. "If you don't know what X5 is...there are probably a lot of things about your girlfriend you'd be safer in knowing..."

"I know everything I need to know." Logan breathed, intense, not turning back. "And I know you belong in jail, no matter what else you might be able to say." With that, he rapped at the door–and left Morrison blinking and uncertain, alone in the secured conference room...

FOGLE TOWERS

Despite his yearning to get back immediately to Max, the anger and ambivalence and impotence tugging at Logan led him to drive around a while, working through his frustrations, before heading home, a last minute detour to the market giving him additional brooding time. He couldn't tell Max what he'd given up in his desire for retribution, and knew this would continue to gnaw at him a while. Still, he might see what a couple weeks in confinement would do to the man's self-confidence, and whether he might succumb to a less disturbing bribe. 'Patience in all things' a wise man had tried to tell him once...

Back in his garage, Logan wearily pulled his chair out to reassemble it, his move from the driver's seat more of a controlled fall than a transfer. Coming around to the back, he lifted the bags from the back, at least gratified that he could feed Max and help her rally. She'd be back on her feet in no time, he knew...

And, he thought darkly, if only he could say the same thing, he might have a fighting chance...

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 12

_DISCLAIMERS in previous chapters._

_SALUTATIONS AND THANKS to all of you, with special thanks for those you who have taken the time to write. Every word is considered and appreciated. For those of you not too crazy about the psychological portions of our program, my apologies for this chapter, but I just can't help myself..._

**CHAPTER 12**

**FOGLE TOWERS: earlier**

She'd been aware that Logan had come in; she could smell the distinctive, sensual scent that was Logan, his shampoo and soap on shower-warmed skin; she heard the soft whisper of tread on hardwood. But she'd been sleeping again, deeply, and by the time she could clear the cobwebs enough to open her eyes, even as she felt him adjust the covers around her, he was on his way out of the room to the hall.

He was going to meet Matt, he'd said...he didn't say why, but she suspected it was related to what had happened with her, earlier. She'd ask him when she was more lucid; she'd want to know but she wasn't quite there yet.

She stretched, sighed, rousing slowly, thinking about Logan and wondering again at her memories and her dreams, trying to sort out what happened and what she imagined...no matter what it had been, she knew that he had been worried for her and, probably because of it, had stayed close, closer physically than he'd come since the night her seizures were bad and he sat with her as he had this morning, waiting for the bad to pass...

She'd noticed that when he knew she was waking, he backed off, almost shyly, but she had vague, hazy memories of his gentle touch when she was nearly asleep. A part of her was relieved at his reticence, because she was still skittish of settling down, of indulging in attempts at a real life. But her relationship with Logan–whatever it was–was complicated. _'Yeah, that's it,'_ she told herself, as she pushed up to sit, to test her head. _'Complicated by the fact that he's gotten to you, Max. You're not leaving Seattle as long as Logan Cale is here and still paging you every day...' _

She was sitting, head in hand, when Bling came down the hall after seeing Logan off. Glancing in, expecting to see her huddled form tucked into a sleeping mound, he stopped, surprised. "Max? You alright?" he asked, opening the door a little wider.

She looked up in a little surprise, and tried a smile, "Oh, yeah...just trying to see if I'm back in one piece yet."

"It may take you another day or so" the man smiled, adding "Logan just left...he stopped in to check on you on his way out but thought you were still sleeping."

"I know" she smiled sheepishly, "I woke up too slowly; by the time I came to, he was gone."

"He shouldn't be gone too long." Bling assured her, "and I'll be around til then, if you need anything..."

Max looked at the man with growing appreciation, thoughts slowly waking to add up all the things that Bling had done for her, and the strong, insistent protection he offered Logan in so many ways. "Thanks," she began. "Bling..." He waited, in that quiet, graceful way of his. "Thank you–for so much; I don't know where to start. I know you went out to the warehouse district with Logan...you've made calls and checked me out and stood by through all this, you picked up some clothes for me that Logan arranged, and even sent my stuff to the cleaners" she indicated a still-wrapped bundle from the laundry, waiting for her on the dresser, "and brought back my bike..." She shook her head, "Bling, you did more in a couple hours than I could get organized in a week..." Looking back to the strong face, now smiling softly, without comment, Max went on, "and...you watch after Logan, and the stuff he doesn't want to face, better than anyone I could imagine..." She hesitated, sighed. "I know...and I know _he_ knows...he wouldn't be anywhere in this, without your being there, kicking his ass when he needs it...and covering his ass when he needs that."

"Right place at the right time." he minimized.

"No..." she shook her head, not finding the words. He knew, she realized; it was amazing all this man understood... "Bling...do you know what happened, out there, how he was hurt?"

The trainer stepped into the room, came closer, to lean against the dresser–he'd heard her tone, and knew she had enough questions to keep them there a while. Bearing in mind his client's right of privacy, Bling also bore in mind his client's need for contact–preferably, with this woman. He knew full well how to negotiate the competing interests. And at this moment, he decided he would answer whatever questions Max might have to the best of his ability, within the bounds of his duty to Logan. He drew breath, to answer. "Not too much. Logan went there alone and didn't call for back-up until he was on his way in. I guess Detective Sung got there about 4 or 5 minutes before I did. Before that, Logan had disarmed the guy and had him immobilized."

"Disarmed?" Max's eyes got bigger.

"Veterinary dart gun–the one he used on you." Bling watched the woman take it all in. "But when I asked, he wouldn't talk. In fact, the line he told you–the 'argument with a pharmacist'–was more than he'd tell me." At her shrug, in question, Bling explained, "the guy who grabbed you was a pharmacist, and his mother, a former Manticore doctor..." He saw memory rise in her eyes, "and they were in the process of using you as a blood donor for sick mama."

"I remember..." she whispered, "and, I remembered her, when I saw her come in..."

Bling was interested to hear that she was starting to recall events. "At the warehouse?"

Max nodded. "She came in once...they talked about taking my blood, the sedative in it and that dear old mom wouldn't be any the worse for wear from the drug, as long as it wasn't pumped in nonstop..."

"Any idea why you? Bling tried, a topic he and Logan had debated, earlier.

Max shook her head, thoughts on a different path. "Any port in a storm" she guessed. Knowing she would eventually have to worry about how they spotted her as one of them, she set it aside for when Logan would return, and shrugged. "She must have needed more blood than she could get by legitimate means–if they knew I came from there, Dr. Mom would know that my blood is compatible with all blood types." At Bling's look of surprise, she said in humorless irony, "another service brought to you by the fine folks at Manticore." Back to her own thoughts, back to Logan, she was quiet for several moments. When Bling said nothing more, she focused on the therapist to ask, "...why is it so hard for him, Bling? I can't believe he was so reticent before he was hurt–is it this hard for everyone who goes through an injury like his?"

Bling lifted an eyebrow, shrugged, looking down as he considered how much to say. Looking back, he said, "It's usually hard to adjust... but with Logan..." He was quiet again for a moment, then spoke. "In recent years, especially with Eyes Only, he'd become self sufficient, far more reliant on himself than on the Net...a loner... and demanding of himself, impatient with getting things done, feeling more and more pressure to do more and more. For every success came more requests for help, and he wanted to fix them all..." Max's suspicion was being confirmed, that Bling's working relationship with Logan predated the shooting... "And, he was used to being in shape, working alone, getting things done without a lot of struggle." Bling's eyes fell distant, seeing something in his memory, unspoken. "Then–things changed." He was quiet a moment, then looked back to Max. "Whether or not he should– yeah, he's taking it harder than others might. He takes _everything_ harder, so why not this?"

She nodded, vaguely, with his words, mulling them over, recognizing the truth in them. "I dreamed that Logan carried me out of there, that he was...holding me..." she started.

"That wasn't a dream..." Bling's rich voice interrupted.

Max looked up to the dark eyes in confusion. "But how...?"

"He carried you out...lifted you and held you, got you to hang on so he could push ..."

"He held me...." Max looked back up, sadness in her eyes as she realized, "He's gone now, isn't he? _That_ Logan, the one who held me like that..." Unconsciously raised fingers to her cheek, traced along the path that his knuckles had tenderly stroked...

Bling shook his head. "Not gone." He considered, and shrugged, "...in hiding, more likely."

"From me?"

Bling considered, nodded. "Yeah. And from himself. And from facing the rest of his life without half his body. And that whole is far, far greater than the sum of its parts..." he suggested.

"But...doesn't he know that the chair doesn't matter to me?"

"No, because it matters too much to him. And...." he challenged, " I'm not sure you really know yet if the chair matters or not."

"...Bling, it doesn't..." She broke off, unfinished.

"Doesn't what? Change things? Of course it does. Matter? It does to him–so it has to, to you. And you _won't_ know how you feel until you sort out what you think about all this, you in his life and him in yours, how each of you fit...and once you get a handle on that, and what part he can play...that's when you can take an honest look at what it means–if it matters, to you."

"Bling..." the eyes begged. "They're hunting me–they always will be! Here, a stupid pharmacist was able to find me and pull me in! It's bad enough for everyone else– Original Cindy, Kendra; everyone in my life--even you. But Logan, in the chair..."

"... is especially vulnerable...and how can you tell him _that_?" Bling completed her thought, his voice quiet. "And so it is true, isn't it, that it matters...maybe not in the way he thinks it does...or that you were afraid it does...but it matters. It makes things different. Usually, harder." Bling looked at the hurt and confusion in Max's face at the thought, and felt some regret that they'd had this conversation while she was still not feeling back to normal. But the opportunity presented itself and as with all things, Bling believed, it had for a reason... "Max..." he spoke gently, "there is no one in his life that matters to him more right now than you do...and no one who handles him better in his self-doubt and moodiness and despair than you do..."

"You do..." She offered, her voice very small, carrying a note of envy for his skill at doing just that.

He smiled a little, shaking his head. "My role is very different. And your dealing with him is not really any less accepting than mine–that's what's important, here." He looked for some comfort to offer. "He's not hiding from you because he wants to, or wants to avoid you...he's afraid of how powerfully he feels about you, Max, and all the implications, not only of your being tied to a paraplegic...but of his being tied, after being such a loner, to anyone, no matter how much he wants it...and how that fits with his being tied to the chair, both in the context of the two of you, and of the world at large. It's a lot to sort out, and it's all still pretty new."

"He was the first one to point out that we're not like that..." She remembered, softly.

"And probably wanted more than anything at that moment to have you kick his ass for saying it." Blink chuckled, sagely.

"...and then a few nights later, calls me out of the blue for a candlelight dinner he'd made..." She remembered, reconsidered the moments in light of Bling's words, then looked up to him, unresolved.

"You both have a whole lot of baggage you're working through." Bling helped, "but I propose you keep at it. You both know you may not be 'like that' yet...but you sure are _something_...and won't it be interesting to see what the hell that is..."

FOGLE TOWERS: present

The sound of the door being opened, sacks shifting, and items being dumped–sounding suspiciously like keys and mail–brought Bling to the entry to see a quiet Logan Cale turning toward the kitchen.

"Hiya" Bling tried. "How was the pharmacist?"

"In a prison jumpsuit–I think pumpkin orange is a mighty good color for him" Logan rolled past, trying to appear unruffled.

"Anything new from him?"

"No–he's willing to keep his mouth shut for the promise of relocation, but anything else, he wanted..." Logan paused, "well, he wanted things I couldn't promise." Logan put the bags on the counter and moved partway out toward the hall, asking softly, "How's Max? Did she wake up again since I left?"

Bling saw the concern in the man's eyes and, not bothering to ask Logan to confirm that which he already knew–that Briley was wanting to trade information for a ticket home–he nodded, "yeah, you just were moving too fast–she was waking a bit from your going in before you left–you just didn't wait long enough for her to get past groggy. She was awake for a little while, maybe an hour. I think she dozed off again."

Logan nodded, and offered, "Thanks, Bling. Look, why don't you take off? You've been here way too long; you need some rest too, some time off from all of this..."

"And you'll get your reps done on your own?" Bling wasn't buying it...

"I'll do the alternate set–I promise" he added, at the skeptical glance he got. "I owe you a lot, I know, but this one, especially..."

"Max is special, Logan. I wanted to help, if I could."

"You did. Big time." He looked away to push back into the kitchen. "I'd better get the groceries..."

"You got the mail?" At Logan's grunt, Bling walked out to see it dumped, Logan's usual careless style, on the table. With a long-suffering sigh, Bling went to sort it and put it away as appropriate–bills or other Logan items, as opposed to EO matters of interest...and lifted an envelope with his own name on it–no other markings. Opening the unexpected packet, Bling drew out two sets of season tickets to the 'Sonics–impossible to find, far beyond his current means–and the topic of his complaints the other day, how tickets were not to be had this season, period.

But apparently not out of reach for Eyes Only... "Logan..." he muttered, shaking his head, before moving back toward the kitchen and holding up the tickets to Cale. "I don't know who you had to grease--" Bling saw the green eyes look up to his, hoping the gift was a success. "But ...thanks, man... you shouldn't have gotten all these..."

"I didn't want you to have to go alone." Logan turned back to the groceries, but was pleased that the tickets had been the welcome surprise he'd seen that they were. "Certainly you have some lady friends who like a good game of basketball?"

"How 'bout a friend who does, too, and knew how to score some tickets?"

"Well, man, if you're that hard up, then I really feel for ya..." Logan relaxed into a grin, offered into the refrigerator's produce drawer as he worked.

"Logan" Cale turned to look back up and saw the other man make contact. "Thank you."

"Just tryin' to say the same to you." Logan didn't break the contact this time. "Now, get out of here. You think Max is healthy enough to have me as her nurse, then get out of here. I don't want to see you back for a week."

"How about tomorrow?"

"How about five days?"

Bling smirked, turned, chuckling, "See you tomorrow, Logan..."

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 13

_**DISCLAIMERS: Not mine, wish they were; not making a dime, wish I were!**_

_**THANKS to all readers, old and new, and thanks for all the interest. Your comments are appreciated and always helpful. **_

**Chapter 13: Fogle Towers**

Hearing the door close behind Bling, Logan allowed himself to feel some satisfaction that he'd found a way to thank the man for the invaluable help he'd been with everything in the past twenty four hours, over and above his usual duties that, standing alone, would try anyone's patience...putting away the last of his purchases, Logan came down the hall silently toward the guest room, to peer in. Max slept facing the hall, her face tipped down, slightly, the low light still catching her features. He watched momentarily, wondering what all the sleep would do to her...wondering if he would ever see a more beautiful face...

Moving again, he pushed past his darkened computers, quiet now too, and he mused how odd it was for either Max or his array to sleep for so long. The Informant Net had gone unchecked for nearly thirty six hours. Not so long, really, but far longer than he'd left things unattended since...well, since he'd been sidelined with a bullet in his spine. He knew he should care but at the moment, other thoughts pressed, and it would take him a little while to shake them. Coming into the front room, Logan was yet again drawn to the vista before him, seeing without seeing the buildings that had managed to remain across the skyline of Seattle, broken as it was, many at this distance not showing their wear or decay ......

The previous thirty hours had left him battered physically and hollow emotionally; it made real the fear of Max's being discovered, but from a source and for a reason they never anticipated and still didn't fully understand. He was irritated with himself that he hadn't managed more from Morrison before he shut down; despite the information he'd given Matt as well as Logan, too many things remained unanswered for Logan to be happy. Maybe the mother would give some up; maybe Morrison would, too, in a while. But "maybe" and "in a while" were never acceptable answers, as far as he was concerned...as far as it concerned Max...

Oh, damn, _Max_...he let his breath out in a long sigh. He'd been so shaken when she'd gone missing, and the sight of her, stretched out on the metal cart, life drained out of her...had anyone ever told her what Briley had said to him, that she was "made to be disposable"? Logan fervently hoped not, and that she would never hear it...

He mused over other things alluded but not explained...what the hell had Briley meant, Logan wondered, palms pressing his thighs almost protectively, when he kept implying that Logan's injury somehow had significance, in his looking for Max? It was as if he thought Logan wanted to line up for her blood, too..._ "I hope you won't need much–she's not going to last much longer..." _Briley's words echoed in Logan's memory and he was again chilled by the thought of what this lunatic implied. They'd come so close to losing her...his own oversight in stopping her, in not getting the address, brought her even that much closer to death, left her captive longer...and he would not let go of the guilt, not yet...

His eyes closed against the beautiful city scape, overwhelmed with where the past thirty hours left him: from the panic he felt in losing Max, the guilt of feeling that he was at fault, the viciousness with which he demanded her return...he finally had to acknowledge to himself the truth: he was hopelessly in love with her, needed her, craved every moment of those brown eyes looking into his... When she first roused, he'd thought she might not remember much from the past few hours and things might go back to the way they were-- platonic...business-like... he thought he might hide the closeness and not have to face admitting to her what it was to hold her, as he had, breathing her in....

But she was remembering some things, Bling said...and he wondered if she'd let him get away without explanation...

"Hey..." he heard, interrupting his thoughts. He quickly flipped off his brakes, lightly, and pivoted to see Max, outlined in graceful silhouette by the soft light along hall.

"Hey yourself..." He managed. At his response, the small, lithe form of his patient padded softly, on bare feet, toward him. She was still wan and subdued for Max, but looked better; there was some color in her cheeks, and the light had come back in her eyes. "How ya doin'?" he asked. _They were alone, she was awake... _he thought. _...now what? Will she have discovered that I feel..._

"Okay. Not sure if I'm groggy from needing sleep or getting too much of it." She came to his right and folded onto the couch, still not ready to be on her feet too long, but gamely offered him a tiny smirk. "I was afraid the world might have suddenly gone right, and I'd've missed it."

Feeling a smile quietly form for her, involuntarily, he allowed only a momentary reflection that she often had that effect on him, that even when he was in a dark mood, her appearance, the unique mix of intelligence and street veneer that was Max could raise a smile that could pull him out of the worst of it. He relaxed a little with her jest. "No problem there" he assured her. "I was going to start dinner...think you'll be hungry?"

Her expression, though weary, was pure Max. "I'm awake, aren't I?"

"Riiight..." he nodded, smile quirking. "I'd better get started, then-- it will be a little while, only about ten minutes to throw things together, but it will cook for about an hour. Would you like something to tide you over?"

"No, I can wait." She looked at him, her eyes softening, holding him in place. "You haven't been to bed yet, have you? Since before I was here, last time..."

He shrugged. "I got a few hours."

"In there, with me..." She sat, not speaking for the moment, then said, "Logan, I was so wrong to go..."

"Max, it's alright--you've apologized enough for something you needn't." Well, she _ought_, he noted to himself in a tiny, private nudge, only for a nanosecond, but she had apologized, several times now, and he was as much to blame for letting her go... "You're back and you're safe; that's all that matters." He watched her, seeing that this brief, intense episode had rattled her as deeply as it had him, if for different reasons. Maybe enough that she wouldn't remember the rest...maybe enough that it would change her, too, as it threatened to change him...and he wondered if it would be for better or worse, for _them_...

...if there was a them...

She sighed, sadly. Logan's attention was returned to the present, looking at her with concern. He didn't think he had ever seen her so conscience-stricken, and when the rich brown eyes looked back up to his, he saw such sadness there, his chest tightened a little, "Will you tell me what happened, to you?" she asked, softly.

"Maybe–when you're feeling better." This Max brought out the caretaker in him; he knew her well enough to realize that in her weakness her guards were lowered, but that in only hours she'd be back– wouldn't she? Telling her any of it now, her emotions bare, wounds upon wounds over the past two weeks, would just be heartless. "Besides" he reached slowly to flip one brake gently, then the other, eyes never leaving hers, "I promised you dinner, didn't I?" When she said nothing, eyes speaking of the volumes of her regret, he urged, "We'll be fine, Max, each of us; I promise." Unaware that he had moved closer, Logan reached out to take her hand, chastely, sweetly... "We'll be fine...and I will always be here for you."

The words were out before he could think, and for a moment, he feared her reaction. But maybe it had been the right thing to say, he decided, when he saw the intensity in her eyes soften...and she let her fingers curl around his. "And I'll do better at remembering that..." she whispered...she was quiet for a moment, and without showing it, Logan let his mind run amok with the fantasies and hopes he'd always managed to contain, before...

He had to be the one to break the spell; he had started the contact, and he at the moment was stronger than she...hating the need to move, he let his smile urge her comfort and let his hand slip from hers. "Why don't you go back and grab a nap while I get dinner cooking..." his voice was soothing, warm. "You'll waste away if you don't get something soon..."

"I'll come help..." she offered, wanting to stay with him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Cook?"

"I might surprise you" a glimmer of the "usual" Max surfaced.

"Max, you will always surprise me–but not in the kitchen" he chuckled, hands to rims, starting his exit. She rose to follow.

"Then let me watch–at least the ten minutes throwing togther time."

"You sure you feel like it?" He crossed smoothly to the refrigerator to start taking out vegetables and a bag of chicken pieces. He filled his lap with the things he needed, corralling them with one arm while pushing with the other. Laying the produce in a basket in the sink and splashing them with water, he managed a glance up to Max, seeing that she too, was working her way back to a balance, back to protecting her emotions and deepest thoughts from him–maybe from herself, too. He felt both relieved and saddened...

"I've got to stay up a while and start moving around–I feel like I haven't moved more than two feet in a week." She sat at the counter, watching him start his work. "It also feels like it's been years since I had a Chef Cale Surprise."

"Well, then, this one had better be extra-special." He smiled in soft confidence, back on solid footing now. He'd already decided that it should be, her first decent meal since coming back. "It's something new." New to her, at least. Something he hadn't made in a while, for silly, superstitious reasons...he brought the vegetables to the work counter and pulled out a paring knife.

"Really? Will I like it?" She dared, watching his artistic hands as they worked.

"From past experience, I think so–you like all the ingredients" he smiled down to the peppers under his knife. "I hope so..." He also hoped his tone was light, platonic...and looked up. "How are you feeling, honestly? Do you think you're shaking off the effects?"

"Yeah, I think so." With effort, she was approximating a true 'Max' tone. "I wouldn't want to have to take on a gang of bikers quite yet, or have to jump more than a 10' fence, but yeah, I'm getting there..." She watched his hands another moment before looking up to offer, "I ought to be able to get out of your hair tomorrow, and go on back home..."

"There's no hurry, Max; as long as you want to stay..." He spoke in a rush as lifted his eyes from the cutting board, to hers, and found her looking at him intently, making him hesitate a moment, his words gone. "...I mean..." He went back to cutting vegetables, his excuse to break contact with her gaze, right back where he'd been ten minutes before. "You know there's room...and food, and plenty of hot water..." he tried.

"Maybe that's it; I have to get back to real life soon or you'll never get rid of me..." She smiled vaguely, then suddenly remembered. "Oh, Logan, I didn't think..." she looked troubled. "How long have I been gone?" She tried figuring out the time. "I need to call Original Cindy–I told her I'd be gone overnight at the longest– she'll be worried, and I probably have no job now, to top it off..."

Logan looked up, watching her wind up to a batch of new concerns. _'God, Max, don't you know you don't need that job; you don't need ANY job,' _he thought,_ 'if you wanted to just stay here it would make me happier than anything in my life and I...' _

"No problem–"Logan found his voice, pressing his thoughts way back to the small corner where they always lurked. "I called Cindy and told her that you'd gotten the flu, so would be staying up with your cousins another couple days. Doctor's note can be ready whenever you want it..."

"Thanks" she relaxed, her latest worries put aside. Thinking for a moment, she sat back, then laughed, "but the flu? Kinda boring, don't you think?" The old Max was finding her way back...

"Well, I figured it _did_ fit your symptoms, if you went back and you were still a bit woozy." He held up a piece of sweet green pepper he'd been slicing, and Max took it with a smile, immediately crunching down on the crisp vegetable. "Besides, I could have said your cousin's wedding suffered from an outbreak of food poisoning, sending over fifty to the hospital..."

"Well, why _didn't_ you? _That's_ interesting, and I could have made up some terrific stories..."

Logan looked half-surprised, amused, and offered "Most people would find that the height of embarrassment–and I didn't want your family to suffer that humiliation all over again, what with all those whispered stories, afterward..." his wry smile of amusement made his eyes sparkle, she thought...

"But Original Cindy's my closest friend and I could tell _her_..." Through the grin, she actually sounded a bit disappointed.

"Well, you still can..." Logan shrugged. At her questioning look, he raised an eyebrow, the twinkle in his eye impossible to resist. "Just tell her I lied so as not to embarrass you." His grin quirked with the eyebrow. "It's exactly what I_ would_ have done--had your cousin's wedding _really_ been struck by food poisoning, sending over fifty people to the hospital."

"Logan Cale...man of mystery...and of such a big heart..." Brown eyes looked long into green ones, and both sets hesitated...

_Without looking, they'd fallen together in the most intimate of touch and concern and fear, for each other...and almost without looking they'd gotten through and recovered and stepped apart again, each waiting for the other to be sure..._

...and this time, it was the brown eyes that broke the connection, with another round of glowing smiles and fun. "I'm going to call her right now and tell her how the groom had to have his stomach pumped."

Logan's haunted stare softened too, as he glanced down and away a moment, chuckling, before looking back to her. "Not the bride?"

"No–sister girl is family." She pronounced. "Nothing bad will happen to her on my watch." She stood smoothly, not the bounced, rapid movements she often displayed but liquid, quiet...Logan suspected –hoped-- it may have been less physical recovery than comfort, trust–she wasn't in fight or flight mode now, was she? The running, wild thing in her might be starting to trust him, after all...he dared the belief that he'd guessed correctly, that it was true. "May I use your phone...?"

He grinned, widely. "Knock yourself out..." He watched her disappear to return with the phone, sitting at the bar with an expression of delighted mischief...but as she started to punch in the number she slowed, stopped, and her expression quieted...Logan looked back up from the herbs he'd been chopping to ask, "...Max? You alright?"

"Oh–yeah..." She put the phone down, subdued but still smiling softly. "I can't do that to Cindy, lie to her like that." She sighed, looking back up. "She _is_ family."

Maybe she _was_ seeing things as he'd hoped, Logan thought, seeing that if a group of kids all whipped up in test tubes together could be a family to her, then so could those in her life who cared about her now. "True." He couldn't stand to see the light in her eyes diminish as they had, and so offered her another smile, one of equal mischief. "However, there _is_ someone in that same family of yours who, I suspect, may have been put on this earth to wait for your stories..."

"_Normal"_ she beamed, grabbing up the phone, and stopped, looking at him with almost a pout, eyes still twinkling. "...but admitting to _him_ this Guevara family embarrassment?"

Logan shrugged, playing along; anything, for those eyes... "I'm sure he'll be the soul of discretion with this...don't you think?"

"Yeah" the beam blinked higher, as she punched in the number, and waited only a few moments. "Normal?" she asked, in a suddenly soft, weakened voice. "It's Max..."

_To be continued_...


	15. Chapter 14

_**DISCLAIMER: Not mine; borrowed from their creators.**_

_**FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO'VE HUNG IN HERE: thanks for your interest, support & comments. This chapter is mostly self-indulgence; I just wanted a little more fluff before Max & Logan have to go back to pre-Prodigy status. Also, any feedback or thoughts would be great–especially since I'm self-beta-ing, this has been one heck of a learning experience. One of the primary things learned: boy, do I love the feedback!!**_

**Chapter 14: Fogle Towers**

They sat at the table, plates and bowls cooling, now emptied of their warm, impressive contents. The wine bottle was three quarters gone, and the candles had burned down a few inches from where they had started dinner. Max and Logan sat at his dining table, full and relaxed.

Max sighed, and looked over to the cook. "That really was a culinary miracle." She lay down her fork and smiled sweetly in feline contentment, her voice threatening a purr. "What did you call it?"

"Chicken Cacciatore" Logan took the last swallow of wine left in his glass, allowing a satisfied grin for both the dinner and Max's response. "When all the ingredients are available, it isn't too bad."

Nor was the company. Dinner had been pleasant, but safe–no heavy topics, no angst, no heartfelt admissions... but also no missteps or recriminations. It too, like the food, had been warm and comforting. And after all the highs and lows of the previous night, that effect seemed both completely improbable...and perfectly right...

_...earlier..._

After the ingredients had been set to simmer Max had decided to delve into Logan's unlimited hot water supply by using the hour of cooking time to shower and change clothes...but when she suggested it, Logan looked at her in some remaining concern. "Are you steady enough for the shower?" he asked. He had learned over the past months how an innocent bathroom could be a dangerous place for one not so sure-footed...

"Hard to manage bubble baths in the shower stall" Max shrugged. "It'll be fine." But at the look in his eyes, she ventured to ask, "What?" at the expression she saw there.

He wavered, the awkwardness clear in his eyes before he brushed it away–anything for Max, he reasoned. "Grab your things and come on back to my bathroom" he released his brakes and started down the hall. "Maybe not a bubble bath like you had in mind...but maybe I can find you something close..."

Curious, she went to the guest room to get a change of clothing from those Bling had brought earlier, and came back toward the master bedroom. Crossing through to the attached bath, she'd heard the sounds of deep water splashing and came in to see Logan also returning, a couple big, fluffy towels in his lap. Across the spacious bathroom at the opposite wall, a generous jacuzzi tub was filling with softly steaming bath water...

"Logan...." Incredulous, she looked back to him–and the look in his eyes filled in the rest, immediately, despite his efforts to play it off. What had clearly been a luxurious but "normal" bathroom now spoke of its owner's impaired mobility– the jacuzzi had been sullied by grab rails, the nearby shower stall defiled with transfer chair, bench, handheld shower head and lowered controls; there were other medical looking items and equipment that she knew immediately pained him to display.

But he waited, the green eyes finally lifting to hers, almost afraid for what he'd see in her own. And among her reactions, she knew she couldn't let him see the tug of sadness and compassion that she felt, that he thought he needed to hide these things from her. She had absolutely no problem, however, letting him know her first thoughts, turning to him, fists on hips. "Logan Cale, I can't believe you've been holding out on me!" she sputtered.

And what Logan saw, as he dared to look for Max's reaction, were her eyes growing wide in recognition as she crossed straight over to the swirling water, seemingly oblivious to the hospital-like contraptions dotting the room. He breathed out in a tentative sigh, wondering if she could really overlook...

"Your bathtub is like a swimming pool!"

Watching her carefully, the hesitant smile starting to light his face, he leaned over to the switch. "Not 'swimming pool'" he offered, anticipating the effect this time. "Whirlpool..."

Forty five minutes later Max had emerged, feeling liquid and warm and more relaxed than she ever could after hauling boiling pots of water to fill a tin-lined tub. A whirlpool...she'd completely forgotten any grab bars or rails or resulting angst to her host as she hatched her water-logged plans to make Logan pay for not 'fessing up sooner...

She walked out of the master bedroom, shaking out her towel dried hair, to see Logan lighting the candles he'd placed on the table, looking up to smile at her. "I was wondering if I'd need to come fish you out."

"Logan, I mean it, if I wasn't so relaxed I'd kick your ass for keeping that whirlpool a secret" her smile warmed him, made him believe she was back, all of her. "Thank you." she added, softer now.

"Any time." He finished lighting the candles and pivoted his chair to face her. "It's yours, when ever you need it."

She breathed in, deeply–and Logan watched her, feeling gratified with her contentment. He'd had so much in his life, she so little... Reining in his imagination, he reflected that could offer her at least these things safely, in platonic friendship as well as anything else. Whatever they were, she could take this, no strings...no heartache...no regrets...

"Dinner smells fantastic" she slid into a chair at the table beside him. "What is it, anyway?"

"Chicken Cacciatore" he said. But he wasn't smelling the rich, tomato-pepper-onion scents anymore ...he was smelling the clean, soapy-fresh scent of Max, and what her personal chemistry did to his soap and shampoo...

And was saved by the chime of his oven timer. "Showtime" he announced, and snapped his brakes to move quickly to the kitchen, relieved for the interruption. He would shake this infernal mooning once he got some sleep...

"What can I do?' She followed him,

"Pour the wine, take it in?" At her agreement, he focused on the pasta, the tender chicken. Daring a quick finger into the sauce, he tested it–perfect, just like the old days. Satisfied with dinner's outcome, he vowed to push aside the other stuff–as in, his infatuation– and get back to being as they'd been. Maybe some day they'd figure out what that was...

Over dinner, they laughed about Normal's reaction to the Guevara family 'food poisoning incident' and Cindy's play by play immediately following of Normal's 'efforts' to keep the family secret _secret_. He told her about Bling's tickets and the chain of contacts he'd used to get them, ultimately finding that taking shameless advantage of the Cale family connections got him exactly what he wanted, even closer to center court than he'd hoped. They spoke of non-consequential matters, avoiding the topic of Max's capture. They took coffee and more wine out to the living room where, at Max's insistence, Logan got out of the chair and stretched out on the couch, allowing gravity to attack different points of his body. Max settled into a chair facing him, and they watched the Seattle skyline darken sweetly into night...

_...into night..._

Logan had been drifting–on air or water, he wasn't certain–but he remembered hearing Max's voice shift from across a distance, to close at hand, little puffs of breath tickling his ear, to shift as he was cushioned into sinking again into the sweet, safe dark of sleep, exhaustion and injury demanding his submission...

He'd been dreaming...snippets, only, of holding Max close...of feeling her soft skin...of standing with her before the mirror, of brushing back her hair and turning her to draw her close, to enfold her in his arms and kiss her...

But he felt his arms not around Max's form, but flung out away from him, one overhead by his ear, across his linen-covered pillow, one stretched off to the cool underside of another. Suddenly aware that his last conscious thought had been while he was sitting on the couch, he grunted softly and started to move to investigate–and his still-sore ribs complained sharply. With another grunt, he stopped, stretching a moment before moving further.

"Good morning–or, I guess I should say, good afternoon–it's nearly that." Max shifted in the chair across from Logan's bed, sitting forward to get a better look at him, putting down the journal she held. "Feeling better with some sleep in you?" He wouldn't notice until several hours later that the journal now laid on the side table by her chair was the issue with the third of his three installments on the bio-hazard dumping–the one that had not only caught the attention of an awards committee, but of a demented pharmacist with a mother fixation. He'd find the other two issues underneath it.

"How did I end up here?" he asked, propping himself up, still a bit gingerly, on his elbows. He noticed he still had on the sweater he wore the previous night–he ventured a guess that his pants were there, too, under the comforter that had been thrown over him...

"I couldn't stand to wake you, you were sleeping so soundly–finally. I just..." she trailed.

Logan groaned inwardly at the thought. "I didn't think you were up to lugging dead weight around yet..." His attempt at a cavalier smirk didn't quite cover the look of disgrace there, to think she felt compelled to carry him to bed, especially while she was still recuperating herself. Across the room, her face was a blur to him, and he couldn't tell what she'd made of it, dealing with his immobility. He was keenly aware that the tide had turned more fully now, back to where he was the invalid and she, the hired warrior. Hadn't taken long, he reflected, the hollow feeling creeping back into his belly.

"Not much lugging involved" she shrugged, her voice light. "Just a hop to the chair from the couch, and from the chair to the bed." She almost made it sound pedestrian, as common as rain in Seattle. "And the fact that you were sound asleep during the entire process just proves that you needed someone to take matters out of your hands and into their own." She had risen while she spoke, stretched, and came around to hand him his glasses, lifting them from where she'd put them on the night stand. Boldly, she sat beside him now, on the bed near his thigh, peering at him, looking almost herself now.

"What about you?" he wondered if his embarrassment was as plain as it was uncomfortable. "You weren't just stuck here in that chair, all night..." he asked. But he knew better...

"Well, as cosy as the bed is in your guestroom, I was getting a little tired of it...the chair felt right, as a change."

"Max..." He shook his head, uncertain what he'd intended to say...uncertain what he could say, now...

"C'mon, the least I could do was return the favor."

Glasses in place now, Logan could study the perfect face before him as it dawned on him what she was saying–Max was back and it would take all of Mother Morrison's drugs to get her to admit anything directly now. But there lingered...something...of their past hours in her words, and he knew she'd stayed with him, not wanting to leave his side, not wanting to be alone again, just yet, not wanting him to be alone...

...or was that just a dream, too, like his kiss at the mirror...?

"...Logan?"

"Sorry" he came to again, blinking back to their present. It couldn't have lasted, this fairy tale. This scene was emblematic of their relationship–no, of why there _was_ no relationship, Logan thought, sadly. Max was alive, vibrant, cheeky– and he was the guy in the wheelchair, the guy at the computers, the guy waiting at home, the guy with medical aids and equipment spoiling a wonderfully romantic jacuzzi... the guy flat in his back, in bed... He began to wonder if every bit if it had been a dream...

But she was looking at him more closely, a half smile playing along her lips, encouragingly. "So when do I get to hear how you saved the day, so I can kick your ass for coming after me?" Her smile didn't change much when she tried to complain, "Especially pulling a hare-brained stunt like coming alone, going in before your back up arrived..."

She would badger him until he told her; this time she was trying charm. Could she know how irresistible she was, like that? What had Original Cindy said, about her having the 'po-po' wrapped around her little finger? The po-po had company...

...but it wasn't enough to break through his protective shell, newly erected, or the protective concern he still held that she didn't need to hear all of it, not the way they treated her. He minimized, "C'mon, Max, the guy was a_ pharmacist_" he didn't meet her eyes as he spoke in self-deprecation. "It wasn't as if it was a platoon from Manticore who found you." ...but after the words were out he couldn't stop himself from looking up again, to see her reaction...

He saw her eyes soften as she considered him, and then flicker in understanding. With a slight tip of her head, she asked, "So, you'd've felt better if you could have swooped in and rescued me from a whole legion of revved-up soldiers than from one measly pharmacist?"

When she said it that way–with her tone reminding him that he had, indeed, rescued her, and with that perfect, saucy little smile, he felt himself caving as quickly as the po-po. With a reluctant grin, he admitted, "Well, yeah. Who wouldn't?"

She smiled back at her protector. "Difference is, it was the pharmacist who had me. And I couldn't do a thing." Her voice and eyes had softened...and she looked long into his remarkable eyes...

And with that, Logan relaxed into a heartfelt smile. Max was back, as he was, back in their present, which, at the moment, was not an unpleasant place to be...

_.....Epilogue to come......_


	16. Epilogue

_**DISCLAIMER: Not mine, nor is any profit derived from these chapters other than reviews. Those are priceless. Wheee!**_

**Epilogue: Max**

It took Max only three or four days to be back at what everyone else saw as full strength, but she could feel it, that the drugs pumped into her had taken a larger toll on her strength and stamina. Determined to tough it out– after all, even if she wanted to tell someone, who could she tell? The only ones who knew the story about her souped up constitution were Logan and Bling–and, given the givens, how could she with a straight face complain to either of them that she just couldn't jump into a third floor window from the ground these days as she could last week?

But now, three weeks past the events, she really _was_ back, much to her relief. It bothered her a little to have been a captive, but it bothered Logan more, and bothered him still more that she wasn't all psychotic about it. He just wasn't making the connection–"prisoner" was lifestyle for her, a decade back–and for a lot longer, with a lot more pain–both physical and emotional. No, other things bothered her more...

Like falling for the lame bait they'd planted for her. It was evidence of how she'd let her emotions take her over where her family was involved. Not totally a bad thing, emotions, but not good at all to that extreme, losing herself to her hopes of finding the others. She filed it away as a matter to be watched and considered, always. She also filed away a reminder to pay more attention to Logan's take on things: a good yin to her yang, maybe? She knew full well she wouldn't often bow to his warnings completely, but would, from now on, take extra care where he felt it might be wise. Not a bad plan, all things considered...

And, bothering her too, Max saw that Logan seemed to be carrying more–everything-- inside: more concern for her, more care, more humor and fun on the good days, more frustration and, yes, pissiness, on the bad. He'd finally told her what had happened at the warehouse, what he'd seen, what he learned from Matt and Mama and Briley, what he inferred. At least, it was his spin on things...she suspected that he hadn't told her everything, and it was something there, unspoken, that led to the changes in him. But on the other hand, he'd seen how deeply she still ached for her sibs, and was better about letting her see the threads he was following to find them–nothing definite yet, but it was comforting to her that he was on it, that he had both her back _and_ her heart's desire.

She wondered if she'd ever learn the whole story and suspected she would not. But it was Logan, keeping those secrets...keeping strong in the struggle...and for once, she felt safe in leaning back and letting him stay strong for her, too...

No, the only piece of unfinished business for her was inside the dingy brink apartment building in front of her. Looking along the street casually, she stepped off the curb to cross the street and go inside. Passing the rickety elevator, she climbed the stairs to the third floor, and walked along silently to Apartment 317. Without bothering to look along the hall–after all, she heard no one in the area– Max quietly jimmied the lock to slip inside...

Even in daylight, it was dim. The only artificial light in the living room was the television set, volume low, turned to some talking head, a political something or other. The room was empty. Max listened to hear sounds of poured liquid from down the hall, the kitchen, maybe. She heard nothing else; she believed the pourer was alone. She walked on down the hall, silently.

The kitchen wasn't much brighter. Max came to stand in the doorway to watch the woman at the stove, back to her, as she set the kettle back down. As she turned back toward the table where her tea cup waited she saw Max and gasped, stumbling in her shock. "452..." she breathed...

Max just stood silently, watching.

The woman wavered, waiting for what was to come: an attack? What else could it be? But when moments went by, and the younger woman didn't move, she became bolder. She of all people knew all that an X5 could do, and the fact that she was still standing–that she'd even _seen_ 452–meant she wanted something more than her death. It emboldened her...

"You've grown into quite the young woman." The doctor offered. "Despite the seizures...and being on your own for what, ten years now?"

There was no response. Not one she could hear, anyway. At the moment Max was remembering years past, being on a cot in the infirmary, being tested and prodded and poked, with the same, cold eyes that would not make contact, would not recognize her or hers as human...the same cold voice which ordered her son to harvest her blood on a regular schedule before her drugs killed the donor...

Well, she looked _at_ Max now, spoke _to_ her. And even in this moment, the moment Lydecker would label as weak, yielding, soft...the moment that Logan had made possible...Max saw the truth: _she_ was more human than this woman. The realization filled her and she felt stronger than she ever had...and she knew how this moment would end. She wasn't sure before that she could do it, but had always known it was the only outcome that would allow her to return to Logan–even if he were never to know, _she_ would know. It was the only way she could feel as if she deserved the respect and...indeed, humanity...he'd always offered her... She looked back to the doctor.

...who had seen the change and paled. "What do you want?" She whispered. When no answer came, she asked again, her voice more shrill with fear. "What do you want of me?"

Max drew a breath. _You've already shown me all I want to know..._ she thought _for now..._ "This. To see what you are. For you to see me. For you to understand which of us is human." She considered, then added. "Your son will be in jail for some time. I know where you're living; you know I can find you–or your son–and you know what I can do. If you don't want to see me again...if you don't want me to pay your son back myself for what he did to me...you'll talk to Logan Cale, any time he calls, tell him anything he wants to know about Manticore, anything at all, related or not; whatever he asks you, you tell him all you know, all truthfully."

She turned to go, and the doctor, rattled with relief, babbled, "That's it? All the research and planning that went into creating you, a perfect soldier, and you walk away?" When the woman turned back to her and the dark brown eyes bored into hers, she quailed, for a moment, regretting her arrogance at stirring a hornet's nest.

But the perfect lips smiled slightly, the eyes seemed to lighten, as she nodded. "And, that way, _I_ win the battle." And as she walked down the hall, down the corridor, her step became stronger, her stride more cocky, a smile curled her lips....and with a toss of her head, a laugh of freedom bubbled deep from her chest...

**Epilogue: Logan**

Logan had sworn to himself that he wouldn't say anything to anyone, wouldn't let his hopes go too far...but only two days had passed after Logan had written to the doctor when, anxious with possibility, he came into the kitchen where Bling was brewing one of his herbal concoctions to leave with his client.

"Hey, Bling."

"Hey" the tall man glanced down, sideways, at the teal-green eyes, not for a moment buying the attempt at casualness. He waited, knowing there would be more. There was.

"What do you know about HikiroTanaka?"

"The geneticist? Just the basics–he's going to be in town next week, at a conference." Bling turned back to his task. "He's presenting on some breakthrough genetic therapy he's developed."

"I know. I was thinking..." Logan stalled, looked for an excuse. Bling seemed able to see through his fictions, and he temporized... "I read that he's been able to do some work on the regeneration of otherwise damaged nerve and other tissue, essentially triggering the body to regrow the damaged parts. With press credentials I could get in to see him."

Bling's eyebrows lifted. "You think he could repair your spinal cord?"

"Can't hurt to ask..."

Bling saw the desperate hope in the man's eyes, and would not let Logan see his skepticism, but suspected that if it was truly possible in the here and now, that he'd have heard of tests and trials and presentations some time ago. And the timing...it had been an awkward three weeks since Logan had brought Max here after she'd been captive. Each of the two had been scrambling wildly to appear to be casual, unaffected... "normal." Several times now he'd wondered which of them would explode first...and now Logan, who'd all this time managed not to succumb to all the quack promises for cures and remedies out there, had found a possible snake oil salesman to get up his hopes that he might get rid of the chair. "No..." Bling finally admitted. "But you know this kind of medical breakthrough has been sought for generations. It's a tough problem to fix."

"Bling, the guy is respected all over the world," Logan's irritated snap merely served to convince Bling that his client was indeed putting too much hope into this "cure." "He's bringing a patient he treated– severe brain injury, now the kid's off the IQ scale. He's not a quack."

"I'm aware of his credentials" as always, Bling was unflappable. "And, as you say, it can't hurt to ask. I suppose he might have something to offer Max too, for the seizures?"

The look on Logan's face surprised him: stunned, Logan realized that it had never even occurred to him that Max's genetic error messing with her ability to produce serotonin might be even more amenable to Tanaka's rewiring than his own injuries. He felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment that he'd been so self-absorbed. "Well, sure; of course. That's the point, isn't it?" Logan heard his voice growing testy. "He can use the genetic layout of any individual as a map to fix the flaws..."

"That's the goal, I know." Bling looked at Logan, levelly--this was all still experimental, at least for adults, notwithstanding the subject of Tanaka's latest attempts, and he could see that Logan was not going to handle disappointment well. "But you need to be ready for the fact that you may not get the answer you want."

"Yeah, well, it would cut back your hours here, wouldn't it? Can't have that." Logan snapped, pivoting tightly and pushing himself quickly out of the room. The therapist sighed after him, dark eyes clouding in concern. Logan's anger at his paralysis was sharper than it had ever been. Bling suspected that it had a lot to do with being face to face with his feelings for Max...and his accompanying stubborn determination that he wasn't worthy of her...

Bling sighed, finishing the tea, and lifted the mug to walk out to the front room where the man in the wheelchair sat staring out rain streaked windows to the thin grey light of mid afternoon. On nearly silent tread he came toward the nearby table and set down the steaming mug. "Here–it tastes a lot better if you drink it while it's still pretty warm." Straightening, he turned calmly to go. "See you tomorrow, Logan."

"Bling..."

The voice was raw; Bling turned as the chair did, and the green eyes carried a new pain and acute remorse. "I'm sorry..." He looked beaten, ragged. "I don't know where that came from."

"Well, I think I do, so I'm not taking it personally." The trainer looked at the man before him, and offered quietly, "Logan, no one else sees the chair as negatively as you do. No one who matters to you thinks less of you for it. If Dr. Tanaka–or the next guy, or the next–can help you heal, then that's great. But you need to understand that, if they don't have the cure you're hoping to find, the _only_ one who will be devastated is you." He hesitated, but decided to add, "You know Max won't be thrown."

"Yeah, well..." _Why should she be?_ he thought _we're not like that_–but had the grace not to voice it, knowing it would only stir Bling into more pep talks. "Whatever," he finished, lamely. "I was way out of line, no matter what or why I said it. I _am_ sorry."

"Yes, you are" Bling's smile was slow, deep...subtle. "You are about as sorry a client as I've ever had –so drink up the tea and I'll see you tomorrow.

Logan nodded, lifting the mug. "Yes, mom" he said for the millionth time. "See you tomorrow..."

..........................

_Dear Mr. Cale:_

_Please let me say how much I appreciate your interest, and would be delighted to provide whatever time and information you need for the article you propose on my work. _

_However, I am sad to say that the aspect of our research that you mention has not been borne out as we hoped. You are correct that we had hoped that the treatment instituted in the Swedish Neurological Institute, allowing for the regeneration of brittle bones and atrophied muscle tissue, could be paired with our own efforts to allow those with longer term paralysis a reversal of their injuries as well. _

_But it appears it won't be enough. I now believe that our treatment will need to be instituted within 6 months of injury–optimally, three months–to allow a not only a viable sensory reconnection between nerves and CNS processing in the brain, but an acceptable regrowth of bone density and a muscle control to complete the restoration of function. Maybe in time we can extend that somewhat, and we can certainly restore some function to those injured a few months longer. However, at this time we can offer repair only to those who are under the age of 2 years, or whose injuries occurred in the time frame noted. _

_I would be happy to meet with you, however, for the interview you requested regarding our research done so far. My thanks for your interest in our endeavors._

_Sincerely, _

_HikiroTanaka _

He pushed across the room to the back corner with enough of a jolt that his chair frame creaked, moving back to the table holding his latest files. He had work to do; projects to complete; he wouldn't agonize...

This fix was supposed to have cured anything, wasn't it? _Was_ the man a quack, as Bling had cautioned? Either way, it didn't matter; turns out the good doctor wasn't quite up to the task.

...it had meant so much...it had meant he could be on his feet, back to his old life...maybe never as tough as Max but maybe able to keep up with her. But now...

Work. Eyes Only had a responsibility. If he could just...

...but it had meant so much...

With a grimace he pivoted with a push, hard, back toward the computers, only to feel his world reel as he tipped over backward, his anger fueling his turn. Landing on his back, hard, he was instantly reminded of what a cure could have meant, if only...his head slowly lowered back toward the floor, where he wondered if he'd have the energy to get up...

Until he heard the last thing he'd wanted to hear at that moment...

"_Anybody home...? Logan...?"_

**_ Episode 6: Prodigy_**


End file.
